


Lorem Ipsum

by LeTempest



Series: Per Alia Itinera [1]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeTempest/pseuds/LeTempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Barca is called to the house, under the guise of negotiating his and Pietros' freedom, he suddenly finds himself faced with a decision that will change everything. A truth and a lie will wrench them apart. Barca is thrown back into the pits with all chance of freedom and valor gone, while Pietros is sent to the house, heartbroken, to be used and cast aside. Sorrow can break even the strongest of hearts; can they be reforged in the coming tides of vengeance and blood?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys, time for the boring stuff. This fic was written for the 2012 Spartacus Big Bang. As far as warnings go, this is a canon au fic. TRIGGER WARNINGS: this fic does contain mentions of violence, sexual assault, suicidal thoughts or actions, and graphic sex(both blatantly and dubiously consensual) as well as quite a few rather naughty words. The POV changes between characters throughout the chapters, and these changes will be indicated with a page break so you’ll know their coming. Also, I don’t own any of theses characters and I am just doing this fic for amusement, I make no money from it. Now, on to the fic!

~*~

Thoughts of freedom sent Barca’s blood racing, his thoughts spinning to the days ahead.  The idea of being his own man, of setting hands to his own purpose again, of loving his boy with no reservations, no concern to the thoughts of others or to the image of infallible strength he had had to uphold for so long. No more killing. No more death.

            But arrival in the villa stripped away all outward thought. There was a darkness, a foreboding to its halls that in all his years under the house of Batiatus, he had never before witnessed. There was a chill up his spin, a knotting in his stomach, an awakening of the same sense of danger that had made him Dominus’ favored watchdog. Only now, it turned not outward, but towards the man it so often protected.

            “I hear whispers you seek freedom,” Dominus’s voice spoke from the shadows. It unnerved Barca but he forced a smile. It was more than the prospect that made him uneasy.

            “Ashur represents me in a discussion,” he replied evenly, glancing at the Syrian. He didn’t like having the man at his back. Still, the little fuck had a delicacy with words that Barca did not. For now, he would serve his purpose.

            “Discussion? There’s none to be had in the matter. The bond between master and slave has already been dissolved.”

            Barca’s heart leapt. Batitatus was not so cruel as some Barca had encountered, but he was hardly kind. That Dominus would grant him freedom, before terms were even discussed, it was better than he could have hoped for. Barca could not help the surprised quirk of his lips, and he glanced again at Ashur, seeking the Syrian’s thoughts on the negotiations.

            “The moment you disobeyed me,” Dominus continued, stepping from the shadows and Barca’s heart stilled in his chest.

            “Disobeyed,” he asked, disbelief in his voice. He had done all that was commanded of him, for years. He had serviced this house in any and all ways he was ordered to, for the chance to make himself a free man.

            “The son of Ovidius lives,” Dominus hissed, his face hard with rage.

            A relieved laugh escaped Barca. Surely this was some sort of test, some last trial before terms were discussed. But Dominus’ face remained as stone and Barca felt the hard knot of tension return.

            “Impossible.”

            “The Magistrate writes to retrieve him, grieving. Small fingers, trembling to reveal the beast that took away his family,” the Dominus pointed to Barca, raising the fine hairs on the Carthaginian’s neck. Trouble was brewing.

            “This cannot be,” Barca pressed, “My hands upon his throat, I felt the life flee from his body…”

            He could feel it still, the struggles of a body so small against his hands. Like slaughtering a lamb, too soft and gentle for such a fight. It turned his stomach even still, the memory of what he had done.

            Dominus nodded but his eyes narrowed.

            “Your lover spoke otherwise.”

            “Pietros,” he asked, confused. What did the boy have to do with any of this? Barca had always taken special care to keep the Egyptian removed from these affairs; from the things he did to gain Dominus’ trust. The boy was too good to be sullied by such acts. He had always taken the pain of others as his own.

            “You told him the boy lives, did you not?”

            “I did,” Barca confessed, “but only to calm him. If he knew the child’s blood stained my hands…”

            “So you lied to him,” Dominus asked, his voice harsh, but not so dangerous as before.

            “Yes,” the gladiator relented. It was not the first time he had lied to his love, about the things he had done. He had hoped, however, that it was to be the last.

            “Or he’s lying to you now!” the Syrian shouted and Barca turned on him. The treacherous little fuck! The sounds of feet moving set Barca on edge. He turned to see the guards advancing. His eyes landed on Dominus, pleading. This could not happen. Not now, not with freedom so close he could taste it. He had survived so many years in the arena, so many battles upon its sands and off. And now it would be snatched from him by the treacherous worm that was Ashur.

            “Either way, we have a serious issue of trust,” Batiatus growled, turning his back.

            The guards were closer now than they had been.

            “Dominus, let me explain!” he called after, panic sharp in his voice.

            Then Ashur’s knife hit home, and all hell broke loose in the house of Batiatus.

            Barca snatched the treacherous fuck by the throat, despite the wound, but the guards were of greater concern. Armed with armor and sword, they were each one was twice the fighter of the cripple. He turned on them, the ferocity that had brought him his name settling onto his shoulders like a cloak. His eyes landed on the Syrian, a promise to return for blood. But more guards poured from the halls and Batiatus shouted his orders, and Barca turned towards escape. The snake had Dominus’ ear, there was no reasoning with the Roman now.

            His long stride carried him across the atrium, the rain pouring down on his shoulders for a moment. It had been so long since he had felt it on his skin, the cool wet shocked him, but he did not have time to ponder it. He slide across the tiled floor, the route to escape closed off by yet more guards. He looked around, his heart thundering. If he died here, like this, what would happen to Pietros? He would not think of it now. To help his love he needed to survive, and to survive, he needed a plan.  The soldiers were closing in, cutting off all ways out. He had to fight. It was his only chance.

            He shut out all thoughts and the house became his arena, these men, his opponents. He fought like the beast they believed him to be, taking whatever blades the fallen could not keep hold of. But he was vastly outnumbered, and some of the blows found their way home, across his arms, across his back, his chest, his torso. Blood, both roman and his own, made it hard to grip his stolen blade, made it hard to keep his feet. Still he fought, stumbling into the pool, his knees hitting the cracked tiles. It was raining harder now, as if the gods were pouring down their wrath on his head. _Poor fool,_ they said, _a slave who hopes for freedom and love? To aim so high was always but folly._

            There was a hand in his hair, jerking his head back, and a blade was laid against his throat. So this was how it ended then, in blood and death.  He understood pain now, he realized. It was not some physical hurt, that could be eased with time and healed with proper tending. It was the deep, aching sense of loss in the pit of his stomach as he called up his lover’s face. It was the image of his Pietros, smiling, laughing, of knowing that happiness would soon be torn from him. It was fear that his lover would never know the truth, never know just how much Barca had loved him, how close he had dared to hold the boy in his heart. Dominus would take his life. And that would be the end of him, snuffed out like a flame. Forgotten, once those who could recall his face were gone. He closed his eyes, and prayed to his mother’s Gods for mercy. Not for himself, he knew he was beyond it, after all that he had done, but for Pietros. He prayed they would take the boy quickly, or else giving him the courage to take his own life against the hands that would harm him, without Barca to protect him.

            “Now you’re free,” Dominus snarled, and Barca chocked, feeling the first parting of his flesh across the blade.

            There was a rolling crack of thunder, a death bell tolling. He closed his eyes.

            And the thunder came again. But he realized, somewhat distantly, it was accompanied by voices.

            “Open up!”

            The blade fell away, but Dominus’ hand jerked at his hair.

            “Juno’s CUNT, what now?!”

            The thundering knocks came again.

            “Make way for the magistrate!”

            Dominus’ grip on his hair eased and he was tossed carelessly at the feet of the remaining soldiers.

            “I’m not done with him yet,” Batiatus hissed, shoving the knife at one of the guards, stepping over the fallen gladiator. The world tiled, and faded to black.

~*~

            Naevia could feel herself shaking. It had all happened so quickly. And there was so much blood. Dominus brushed past her, but she could not pull her eyes away from Barca. He was a mountain of a man, but how could one body bleed so much and yet still draw breath? It sent a shiver through her.

            Domina’s hand on her arm brought her back, causing her to start at the touch.

            “Close the curtains,” Lucretia hissed, her eyes panicked, “And speak of this to no one. Do you understand?”

            Naevia nodded dumbly.

            “Y-yes Domina.”

            A hard slap across her cheek forced her back a step. She clutched her against her skin, trying to ease the sting.

            “Do you understand,” Domina all but snarled.

            “Yes,” she shouted back, her own voice raw with fear, hand pressed to her burning cheek.

            Naevia scurried to close the curtains as unfamiliar guards pressed into the entry hall, the magistrate pushing his way through them.

            “Batiatus!”

            Naevia tried to quell the quaking in her limbs. She was terrified, more than she had ever been in her life. She barely knew Barca, it was true. But she could not banish the image of Crixus in his place and it made her heart thunder in her breast, made her breath catch. Barca was the most loyal man in the Ludus, next to Doctore. What reason would he have to betray Dominus? It would not have helped his bid for freedom. And then there was the matter of his boy, Pietros. She knew the Egyptian only in passing, but he had a kind heart and pleasing nature. There had always seemed to be genuine affection between them, but more over, Barca provided position that many slaves would have given anything for. Barca did not seem the type to jeopardize those under his protection.

            “Magistrate! You call at unexpected hour,” the Dominus replied cordially, mopping Barca’s blood from his person. Her stomach churned rebelliously.

            “Drawn by matters that will not wait for dawn,” the old man replied, his already stony face cold with rage. He spotted stains on Dominus’ clothing, his lip curling in disgust.

            “What new offence is this?”

            “A disobedient slave,” Batiatus laughed, “freshly corrected.”

            _For tying to spare his lover,_ Naevia thought to herself, her eyes cast to the floor, _for trusting the Syrian snake. Or for sparing a child? Whichever, none is a sin worth dying for, not like this._

“Not the only wretch deserving of blood this night.”

            Dominus and Domina both tensed.

            “I have just now returned from the promised reunion with Ovidious’s son, and would have words with a man seen in your house.”

            Dominus nodded, acting his role of ignorance well. Naevia had lived in this house long enough to know that Quintus Batiatus was not the simple man that his superiors thought him.

            “Which man do you speak of?”

            Naevia’s heart stilled. Barca’s death warrant was sealed now. Dominus would never allow him to live if he was traced back here. The house of Batiatus had long stood on the broken backs of it’s servants….like Diona.

            “The messenger who filled my heart with false hope.”

            “Messenger?”

            “Ovidious’s child was not seen on any road. Returning to the city, we had news that his body was discovered among the ashes of my cousin’s villa.”

            “The messenger lied,” Lucretia stuttered, a wavering in her voice.

            “And I will have knowledge of the reason, along with the fool’s tongue!”

            “Every effort will be exhausted until the villain is discovered,” Batiatius assured the elder man. There seemed a conviction in him, that could have fooled anyone who did not live under this roof. She had forgotten how good the dominus was at these sorts of games. A champion of lies, with skills to rival even Lucretia.

            There was some more talk of punishments and rewards, of the boy’s tragedy, before the magistrate left. But the moment the door closed, Domina turned on her husband.

            “Barca spoke the truth,” she whispered, and Naevia could see the women’s eyes were wide with something akin to fear.

            Dominus nodded, the wheels in his head already turning. Naevia felt she could practically hear them.

            “Indeed. He may yet have some use left in him then. See yourself to bed, I will take care of the matter.”

            Domina swept away, seeming displeased with the dismissal but she did not argue. Naevia cast a final look over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the bloody heap behind the curtain.  She sent a quiet prayer of safety to the gods, though for who, she wasn’t quiet sure. 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**_ CHAPTER 2 _ **

            Dominus was stronger than he looked, Ashur realized too late. His back hit the marble, and Dominus pressed the knife harder against his throat.

            “Simple fuck!” Batiatus raved, “My second best man, nearly dead by your lies! I should cut out your tongue and crucify you for the coin you have cost me!”

            The Syrian swallowed, the wheels of his mind churning to come up with a plan. Dominus would not hesitate to make good on his threats. Barca was worth much coin to Dominus, far more than  him. Something clicked in Ashur’s head and he smiled. Here was an end to many problems and a way to slither further into Dominus’ pockets.

“I thought it truth, Dominus! Barca keeps nothing from the boy, so when I heard them speaking, what other conclusion was I to come to. He has been hiding things from you, coin that he has made in his bets and from deals made with other Romans, your own guards, in this very house. All of it, stocked away for the purchase of his freedom. I can show you the place. And it would not be the first time he has contemplated betrayal.”

            Dominus eyes narrowed but the pressure of the blade eased. Ashur suppressed a smile. In all his eaves dropping, he had picked up many things. The smallest teasing’s and joking allusions of escape, shared between lovers in the dark, now proved most useful to him. The boy had doubted Dominus kindness, and Barca had chased away such thoughts with humor, asking Pietros, jokingly, if he did not think he man was strong or clever enough to slip out from under the eyes of Dominus bumbling guards.

            “Words spoken in hushed tones,” the Syrian continued, now that he had his hook in the master’s ear, weaving innocent joking into a web of lies, betrayal, decete,  “In the night. Barca contemplated escape, of fleeing from the Ludus when he was to attend you in the pits, and coming back for Pietros. The boy talked him out of it, but still, the seeds of betrayal were there.  And there was a box, hidden away among their things, filled with coin and trinkets. Bribes, stolen wares. Can you blame a humble servant for what he saw as further evidence?”

            Dominus watched the fallen gladiator warily, but pulled away. Ashur felt relief wash through him. It was only half lie, but a very weighty accusation none the less, one that might require Ashur to part with his sizable stash. But if passing of his box trinkets and bribes as Barca’s could save his hide, it would be money well spent. It was common knowledge, after all, that Barca was constantly providing pretty trinkets to his lover, trinkets Ashur himself had procured. There was no one else who could vouch that gold Pietros wore had not been spirited away from roman ownership. And for a slave to steal from Rome was the greatest of offenses.

            “But tell me, humble servant,” he spat, “ what am I to do with the man now?”

            “Barca has come into some funds of late,” he said, “from a bet made on Spartacus and Crixus. Take the coin as debt owed for your troubles. To close the balance, sell Barca’s whore. You will easily have back his worth if he dies, when the funds are combined.”

            “And if he lives,” Batiatus sneered, “What am I to do with such a man? He will be lucky to be half of what he was anytime soon, bearing such wounds?”

            “Fight him in the pits, as punishment for giving you reason to doubt him,” Ashur suggested, “And as a warning to those who contemplate escape. Or, if you must, fight him in the early games. Show the crowds that Barca’s of glory has ended.”

            Batiatus furrowed a brow, eyeing the Syrian but Ashur could see the man’s mind working out the suggestion. Once again, the serpent had slithered free of death.

 

~*~

A sharp strike across his jaw brought Barca back from the grey. He reeled, the world spinning rapidly beneath him as he tried to collect himself. There was pain, in so many places he could not pinpoint the source. Had he been fighting? He was on his knees, on tile too fine to be found in the ludus. And he was wet. Why was he wet? He had not been in the baths, and there was no water to be had anyway…

            Memory swept over him. The party, the drinking, the rain. Pietros. The boy had been called for, and then later, Barca had come to the house. Freedom. Yes, that’s why he’d gone. Ashur was to…

            Ashur. Ashur had betrayed him.

            Barca opened his eyes, and found Dominus staring back at him.

            “The serpent yet lives,” Dominus replied.

            Barca took a shuttering breath, his body sagging against the arms of the guards who held him captive. He tried to collect himself, to hold his own weight. But he was so tired.

            “I swear to you dominus. I killed that boy with my own hands. I did not wish it, but I did as commanded.”

            “Why lie then?” Dominus pressed, running the edge of his knife along the man’s throat.

            Barca’s gaze fell.

            “Pietros has a gentle heart. I would not see it turned from affections for me.”

            “So you lied to him, to keep him for yourself,” the dominus sneered.

            Barca looked up at his master, catching the man’s eye. They were not equals, they never would be. But there were some things, Barca knew, that all men shared. Slave and free. Love was among them.

            “Have you never lied to your own wife, to keep the taint of things you have done from her?”

            Dominus blinked at him, all rage seemingly gone. There was quiet for a long moment, only the sound of the rain and thunder filling the air. Dominus nodded.

            “I have,” Batiatus relented.

            Barca let out a breath as Batiatus stood.

            “But it does not solve the matter. Your loyalty has been called to question, and your judgment can no longer be trusted. I know now too, that your thoughts lingered to the idea of escape, could freedom not be afforded with coin. What am I to do with such knowledge?”

            “Dominus,” Barca started, unable to keep the edge of panicked pleading in his voice. How had Dominus know about ideas, only half formed in his own head? It would have been a lie to say had never contemplated escape, but he had never spoken seriously of it…except once, in half joking tones, to Pietros. In the night, doubt had filled the boy’s mind, and Barca had thought to soothe it. The very mention of escape had rankled the boy all the more. He would never have mentioned it… Again, the point came back to Ashur. He must have heard their conversation, shadow sneak that he was. He opened his mouth to speak, though what excuses he could make, he did not know.

Batiatus held up a hand, silencing him.

            “You have served this house well in the past, and for that I leave you with your life,” he said, “I will take your winnings as payment for troubles caused. ”

            Barca nodded, shifting his weight from one knee to the other. It brought a fresh wave of pain but he bit back a groan.

            “Gratitude, Dominus,” he said quietly. He could feel freedom being ripped from his fingers. And yet he must thank this fuck for the pleasure of it? He stilled his anger. There was no fighting this. In this he must be cautious; he had only narrowly escaped execution as it was. To save them, he would have to grovel and play the dutiful slave, until he could form a better plan.

            Dominus rose to his feet, examining the fallen gladiator with distant distaste, like a man seeing his best horse lamed. There was no affection in the gaze, but still some sense of loss.

            “See him to the Ludus,” he told the guards, “Awaken medicus and see the man tended.”

            “And of the slave boy,” one asked as the pulled Barca to his feet. His head snapped up, and his heart stilled. Was Pietros to be punished as well?

            Dominus ran a tired hand across his face.

            “It can wait a day or so. Barca will need tending and I will need time to broker the sale of the boy. I know a man who may be interested in him.”

            Pietros? Sold? Panic spiked in Barca’s chest again. He could not let Pietros be sold from the house. He could not have the boy sent to parts unknown. Then all hope of them ever existing outside these walls would fall away. So long as Pietros was here and Barca was alive, there would be hope.

            “Dominus,” Barca broke in, taking an unbalanced step towards his master. One of the guards jerked him roughly, and he fell hard on his knees again. A foot connected with his solar plexus, and he doubled, trying to catch his breath.

            “Please,” he panted, “do not punish the boy. The fault was mine alone, all talk of freedom and escape, all lies I told, of my own devices. He had nothing to do with any of it. He it is the only way he knows, he only knows how to do as told.”

            “True though that may be, he has compromised a trusted asset once already. Am I to believe that, if sent back into his arms, you would not cause such grievances again? No, the boy is more trouble now than he is worth. You will find another cunt.”

            Dominus turned and waved them out.

            “Please Dominus,” Barca called after him, pulling desperately against the hands that held him. It was only now he realized how weak the fight had left him, these men should have been nothing, their hold easily broken by the beast of Carthage, “Keep him in the house, as a slave here. I will pay for his upkeep, take any future winnings I may have. Please Dominus, do not sell him away. I beg you.”

~*~

            Qunitus Lintulus Batiatus did not consider himself a kind man because he was not. Often enough, he was not even understanding. He was a businessman, one with high ambitions. He was not afraid to crush lesser beings beneath his heal to get what he wanted. But he did not consider himself a completely heartless man either. He could be swayed by compassion if there was gain to be had.

            He turned Barca’s pleas over in his head. There was coin to be had from a wager such as this.  The boy, Pietros, was next to nothing to him. He’d cost half a coin at most and would bring little more than that. Barca was always the second best man in the Ludus…well third now…but still it was not a position to be scoffed at.  Fighting him, even in the pits or the lesser games, would draw a well paying crowd. To then again be paid by the man himself, for any bets he made, would weigh down his purse even more. And Barca was rumored to be quite the gambler. To keep the boy would not take much, to see him fed and clothed, and in the house there would be far less chance of the youth directly influencing the Beast of Carthage’s decisions. He’d also make a good bargaining chip, were Barca to ever toe the line again; beating or killing a fighting man would cost the house far more than beating or killing a simple house slave.  His decision made, it was time to play the game.

            “You would give so much for such a man,” the Dominus asked arms crossed behind his back, watching Barca’s face for any sign of trick or lie. But bloodied though, he was, there was nothing left in the gladiator, save desperation.

            “Anything,” he croaked, “Everything.”

            Batiatus nodded thoughtfully.

            “A dangerous situation. It would be kindness to remove him from your side it seems. I will spare him, just this once, as you have served me well and my father before me. But on the condition that you sever ties with the boy. He will remain here in the house, so long as your winnings are paid directly to me. If anyone pries, tell them you made plans for escape, did negotiations not go well. These plans were discovered, but being a good master, I spared you crucifixiton for your good service to this house.  But be sure, if I uncover you in lies again, I will not be so lenient. To either of you.”

            He watched the man sag, as if all the strength had finally left him.

            “Thank you Domnius,” Barca breathed.

            “Take him away,” the Lanista commanded, dark smile on his face.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

**_ Chapter 3 _ **

 

Pietros head spun pleasantly as he wandered back to their cell. Thoughts of freedom brought a smile to his face and a giddiness to his limbs, though he was sure the wine was doing its fair share. He laughed into the empty darkness, a sound of hope and happiness. Soon, he would free of this place, of the only life he had ever known. He knew, distantly, that the prospect should terrify him. With morning, and sobriety, it most likely would. But somehow, he knew it would be alright. Barca loved him, cared for him. So long as he was at the man’s side, he knew he would be safe. 

The cell door was unlocked and he slipped inside, humming to himself. He could hear the revelry as it carried on down the hall and he smiled all the wider. He liked some of these men, even respected a few. He was glad to leave them like this, with all spirits high in the seas of wine and revelry. It seemed as a sign from the gods. He pulled out the simple bags he had packed for their journey. Neither had much in the way of clothing but he laid out their cloaks. He took off his bracelets and necklace, tucking them in a small pouch, next to the money for their journey. The pieces weren’t fine, but they would fetch a few coins if need be. Barca had bought the pieces for him, to win his affections, though that now seemed lifetimes away, the time when he had not been so desperately in love with this man. The birds fluttered and cooed in their hutch, and he smiled at them. Soon, they too would be free. Where would their own hearts take them, he wondered.

He heard movement in the hall and a smile broke out onto his face. He was shaking, he realized, as though his insides could not contain all the things he felt in that moment.  He moved to the door, ready to kiss his man.

Pietros’ heart plummeted straight through the floor as the guards rounded the corner, dragging a bloody Barca between them. The pouch slipped through his numb fingers, the coins scattering across the stones, forgotten, as Pietros ran after them.

~*~

            The pain was fierce and blinding, but it was nothing compared to what Barca knew he must do. Pietros’ life was now tied directly to his now, and in this house his love was no longer safe. He must force the boy to leave, to go to the house, to make him forget the Beast of Carthage. But Barca knew Pietros better than anyone, to abandon a man, any man, was not in the youth’s nature. It went against his gentle heart. He would never leave Barca, not without explanation, and even then, he knew the boy would be willing to risk himself to see his lover again.  He must push the boy away, no matter how much it pained him. He must give reason for Pietros to leave him.

            The guards tossed him onto the bench, and he went, unable to fight them, unwilling to fight them. He could hear Medicus in the background, crowing at them for explanation.

            “I’ve to tend one dying man already! Now you bring me another? What has happened!?”

            Dying man?

            Barca left eye had swollen shut, he had to turn his head to see the man beside him. Crixus. How had he so nearly forgotten his friend, who had so nearly met his death at the hands of Death’s Shadow, who had lost his title of Champion to Spartacus.

            “Dominus wants him seen to. The reason is no concern of yours, old man.”

            Medicus face soured and he spit as the guards left the room. Cursing under his breath, the haggard healer set to work.

            “What have you done Carthaginian, to have Roman swords in your flesh?”

            Barca gathered the breath to answer as the first needles pierced his skin.

            “Punishment for..”

            “BARCA!”

            Medicus turned on the newcomer with all the venom of an adder, but Barca could only close his eyes. He would know that voice anywhere.

            Pietros was at his side in a moment. Though he still smelled of wine and revelry, the boy’s dark skin was ashen, is eyes wide with fear and concern.

            The youth knelt and Medicus rolled his eyes, heaving an exasperated sigh, and went to fetch his supplies. It was known that the old man favored the youth, for his sharp eye and careful fingers made him a good assistant when one was needed.

            Pietros brushed Barca’s wet hair from his face. It was all Barca could do not to lean into the touch, to seek out Pietros’ warmth and comfort. Instead, he forced himself to turn from the touch all together. The Egyptian pulled back as if he’d been burned.

            “What have they done to you?” the youth asked, his voice quiet and afraid.

            “Punishment,” Barca snarled, shoving the boy away from him. Though weakened, the movement caught the boy by surprise, knocking him backwards. Pietros looked at the Carthaginian with a mix of hurt and confusion. He’d never struck the boy before, never even threatened to raise hand to him. Pietros had suffered enough beatings in his life, Barca could not stand the idea of youth fearing such treatment from him.  Barca turned his eyes to the ceiling, trying to force all his focus into the rattling of his own breath in his chest. He could not think about what he was doing, about what he had to do.

            “P-punishment? For what offence?”

            “For sparing the feelings of a child. Dominus calls my loyalty into question, because your words lead him to believe it so.”

            “What? I don’t understand…”

            Barca turned on the boy, half sitting, his face filled with rage. He pulled on all the rage and helplessness and heartbreak that was churning inside him and turned it on the one person he knew had done nothing to deserve it. On the one person he loved more than himself, and unleashed it.

            “It was you who told him the son of Alvidious lives, when he called you to the villa tonight.”

            “Because he asked! He said he gave strict orders that the boy should remain unharmed! He said he feared you had over stepped his commands!”

            “Then it is your stupidity that sees me in such a states, to trust shit spilled from roman tongues!”

            Pietros looked at Barca, his mouth half gaping. There was hurt, and fear in the boy’s face now. Fear of him. The boy was seeing  Barca for what he was now, seeing the man, the _thing_ , that Barca had lied and hidden away. Pietros was seeing the beast that Barca had tried to protect him from.

            “Dominus punishes me because he thinks I left loose ends, because you, you stupid little fuck, could not keep your mouth shut. I am to lose my coin, my freedom, because of you. If it were up to me, he’d have sold you on the block come sunrise. But he sees some value in you still, though I can not. You are to report to the house at once and to stay there. Now get out of my sight.”

            Pietros shook his head, not able to take it in just yet. Barca want to scream and shout at the boy, rave and tear at him. Anything, just to make him leave. The Carthaginian doubted his own self control, doubted he could hold onto his heart for much longer, that soon the urge would be to strong. That he would not be able to stop himself from dropping to his knees, and begging Pietros’s forgiveness, for telling him the whole truth, from sweeping the youth into his arms and never letting go.  
            “GET OUT!,” he snarled, sweeping his good arm across the table, sending the contents flying. Pietros jumped back, pressing to the wall. Medicus came back then, swearing.

            “Enough!,” the old man pushed Barca back to the bench, “Pietros, go.”

            The boy stared dumbly for a long moment, before he pushed away from the wall, and stumbled out.

            Barca closed his eyes and clenched his fists, shoving down the overpowering need to call out his lover’s name.

~*~

 


	4. Chapter 4

**_ Chapter 4 _ **

 

            Ashur limped through the halls, a clever smile on his face. He could not have wished for a better outcome. Barca had been a constant thorn in his side since he had arrived on the sands years ago. To see the man fall so far, so swiftly, it lightened the Syrian’s spirits even more than the rains. In a matter of hours, he'd found himself relieved of his debts, free from Barca’s heel, with a little extra leverage safely tucked away in his pocket.

            The hall was filled with moans and grunts, though not of the same variety as last night. The wine had finally caught up with the Brotherhood. Ashur’s smile widened.

            A door swung out on him unexpectedly, and he stumbled back, mood soured. Though the god’s found spirits lifted once again, as he saw Pietros. The boy’s was pale and his lashes wet. He stared at the Syrian in surprise.

            “Pietros! How does the morning find you?” he said jovially. It would seem his plan was coming along nicely. Though Barca’s death had seemed the best revenge at first, the Syrian found this route to be far more satisfying, seeing a man who stood so high in the ludus, losing everything.

            “As the night,” the boy replied, his voice flat, “Filled with confusion. What happened to Barca?”

            “Barca?”

            “He want to discuss the terms of purchasing our freedom.”

            “Our?”

            “He was to take me with him. Yet he is returned here, all but dead, and raving. He says I am to be sent  to the house. What happened to him Ashur?” There was pleading in Pietros’ voice, he was begging for answers. To hear the boy beg, that set Ashur’s blood to sing. It gave him a feeling of power, and Ashur liked power. 

            Still, Ashur shrugged and turned away.

            “Punishment for betrayal against our dominus.”

            “Betrayal?”

            Ashur turned with a coy smile.

            “Rumors have been floating about, causing Dominus to lose trust in Barca. Whispers of freedom and of lives spared. Things that could cause this house to fall to ruin, if discovered.”

            Pietros stopped dead, full understanding finally hitting the boy. Ashur’s lips curled in a sneer.

            “So he sends me from his side, for lies he told me in the first place, for wickedness done by his own hands.” there was something akin to anger creeping into the young man’s voice, “Yet he thinks me simple and stupid for answering our master with what I know to be truth, when I fear his life is in danger?!”

            Ashur shrugged, popping another date in his mouth, before tossing a careless arm around Pietros’ shoulders.

            “Quiet concern. I am sure Barca will find another willing hole to sit on his cock. One he does not have to pay for,” the Syrian chuckled, cruel grin on his face.

            The Egyptian shoved the arm away, backing way from Syrian, watching him in horrified disbelief. The feeling of power, the strength to move others like pawns in his game, had returned. It was a feeling he could get very used to.

~*~

            Naevia felt as if her heart had turned to stone in her chest, weighing her down with every step. Crixus lay dying in the ludus below, so close she could hear his screams. Yet, standing before the gate that separated the ludus from the house, they may as well have been separated by oceans.

             A voice from beyond the gate startled her. It was Pietros.

            Even in the pale torchlight, she could see the brokenness in him. She knew the Egyptian only in passing, but she had always liked him. He was soft spoken and kind, with a gentle smile that brought comfort in a sea of wolfish grins.  That was gone now, and he seemed hollow, as if someone had sapped all the life from him, like tapping nectar from a tree. Guilt began to weigh her already heavy heart. She had heard Barca’s pleas for the boy’s life, had heard the bargain struck between master and slave to insure the boy’s keeping. She was forbidden to speak of last night’s events, even with the other slaves. She feared Domina’s wrath enough to keep her lips sealed, even in Pietros’ company.

            She tried to smile at him. He met the greeting with an empty stare.

            “Come,” she said, turning away. She hadn’t the strength to look the other in the eye. She could not take another’s pain, as she so often did, not right now. Not when Crixus lay dying.

~*~

            Pietros was numb, and empty. It was as if something had come along and cracked him open, like an oyster. It had scooped out his insides, and gobbled them down, left nothing but the empty shell behind. He did not realize it was possible to feel so hollow.

            He followed Naevia up the stairs in silence. She was Crixus’ woman, he knew, or the Gaul wished her to be. _Had_ wished her to be.  The Gaul would be dead soon, some other man would come along to use her. That was what they did, it seemed. They used people, found pleasure in them, then cast them adrift in the storm when the time came.

             Barca had owned him, every fiber of him. And he had given himself to the man freely, piece by piece, to be placed back together in the semblance of a human being, guided by a lovers hands It was Barca that had reminded him that he was a man of flesh and blood, as deserving of freedom as any other. It was Barca who had taught him bravery, had showed him how dream and love and hurt and _feel._  

            Now he wanted nothing more than to be ride of the knowledge, to be rid of all this deep, aching pain that thrummed inside him with ever beat of his heart. He had been lied to but for how long or how much; he could not begin to guess. And yet when those lies surfaced, ready to destroy the one who spun them, it was he who was punished as well. He would have happily submitted to any beating at Dominus hand just to stop the storm that raged inside him. It was not just sadness, but a deep, swelling, anger. There was frustration and helplessness, churning and twisting about in the whirlwind of unanswered questions. He wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to tear heart from chest…be it his own, or Barca’s. He wanted someone, anyone, to hurt as much as he did.

            Naevia lead him through the halls of the villa and he clenched his fists. Mere hours ago, he had come to this place with a soaring spirit, thoughts of freedom dancing in his brain. The walls seemed tainted now. He followed closely in the girl’s footsteps.

            “To have two new arrivals to the house, “ the girls said with a nervous laugh, obviously trying to sooth the silence, “The god’s must favor us.”

            “Two,” he inquired, his voice flat.

            Naevia nodded.

            “Spartacus’ woman is supposed to arrive soon. The champion will be most relived, I am sure. He seems to hold the deepest of love for her.”

            Pietros nodded, numbly. He did want to think of such things. He liked Spartacus, but the news brought up only jealousy and anger. He did not want to feel such things towards the man.

            He followed Naevia into the servants quarters, where she handed him off to an pulp woman in her middle years, who promptly shooed the girl away. Her face seemed to droop in a perpetual frown as she looked him up and down.

            “I am Mora, and you will answer to me among the house slaves. Domina is the woman of this house and I am her will. You’re of a form, I’ll give you that. You will be useful and not unpleasant to the eye. Domina likes that,” she crowed,  circling him like a great vulture. Her head barley brushed his collar bone but he tell she was a voice of authority in the house , “You are still unmarked…well mostly”

            She lifted his arm to examine his brand, her scowl deepening.

            “We’ll have to find a way to cover that,” she shoved a pile of linens at him, “take off those trinkets and see yourself bathed.”

            Pietros looked up at her, suddenly very afraid. It was really over, he was really gone from the ludus. He looked down at his wrists, the bracelets he had worn for years, trinkets from his lov…Barca. He closed his eyes, slipping them over his hands, before reaching up for his armband, then his necklace. He dropped them into the woman’s open hand. He reached for his ear, fingers tracing the inlaid designs. This had always been his favorite; the first thing Barca had ever given him. The first gift he had ever received from anyone.

            “Leave that one,” the old woman sighed, and Pietros saw her face gentle, “You have a pretty face, that piece draws attention to it. Domina will approve, I am sure.  Off with you now.”

            Pietros did as he was told. He always did as he was told. He felt a bitter cold in the pit of his stomach and he wondered for a moment if he would be sick. He always did as he was told. And he always suffered for it.

            The servant’s baths were empty and Pietros found himself alone, again.  He knew he stank of wine and sweat, of the previous night’s festivities. But as he put the rag to his skin, a realization came to him. Washing away the taint of the ludus below would mean washing away Barca’s touch, washing away the deep, earthy smell that had brought him so much comfort over the years, that not brought him so much pain. To know he would never feel those hands upon him again, it tore something in him then, something that broke through the numbness. There was sadness, somewhere buried deep in him, but now all he felt was rage.

            Pietros snarled, scrubbing at his skin until it was raw, washing away the touch of the man who had promised him so much, and then abandoned him. Who had accused him of betrayal, when all he had ever offered was love and devotion. He had tolerated the pettiest of demands, the catcalls before the man’s peers, the jealousy any time he strayed to close to another. He could feel the hot tears sting his eyes, spill over onto his cheeks and he scrubbed at them too. He would not weep. He would not be weak.

            But soon all the angry boiled away and all that was left was the bone-deep emptiness again. Pietros’ back hit the wall and he slid to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. Just this once, he told himself. Just this once he would allow himself to grieve the loss of his dreams, the loss of his heart, and the life he had know. For there would be no room for it once the sun came up.

~*~

            Lucretia sighed, watching the rain. They had been too long without and the steady drop of water calmed her, but it could not sooth her raw nerves. Crixus lay below, dying. And she could do nothing. She could not go to him, she could not comfort him, not without Quintus suspecting something odd. She loved her husband with all her heart, but the Gaul had wormed his way into her soul. She had never felt better than when she ordered his hands upon her, to have such raw power, hers to command.  And now she may lose him forever.

            Spartacus woman brought new worries as well. The new champion was a worry in and of himself. He was wild still, in his heart,  only barely tamed on the outside. Returning his bitch to him was sure to make him break lead. Why could Quintus not see that? Men and their “honor”.

            And now all this with Barca too. She held not true affection to the Beast, but still, he had saved Quintus’s life a number of times and she could not help but feel safe knowing her husband left the house with Barca as his shadow. Though he had never been champion, he was still a gladiator of great renown, and his name was enough to send a message of power, having him ever at Quintus’s side was even better. The man was loyal, or always had been before now. It was a shame to loose something so valuable to the house.

            She heaved a heavy sigh, feeling as if her body was trying to blow away the burdens that weighed so heavily upon her.

            “The pool is nearly clear. As if it never happened,” she said, when Quintus came to stand at her side.

            “A regrettable misunderstanding,” Quintus replied, a sour look on his face, “Though thankfully interrupted before the intended ending. The gods must favor us”

            “The man was yet loyal,” she said, a careful  smile, curling onto her lips. The money to be gained from her husbands deal with the beast was nothing to be scoffed at. Perhaps she would purchase another necklace, rubies this time. Red had always been her favorite color.

            “He wished for his freedom, nothing more,” Quintus shrugged and there was some small trace of remorse in his voice.

            “Betrayal in itself,” she pointed out, catching her husband’s gaze.

            He smiled at her and she remembered now, why she had fallen so in love with this man.

~*~

            Barca woke to pain. Not so keen as before but still, it lingered. He opened his mouth before his eyes, calling to Pietros. The boy was always close, when he was so wounded. A gentle and caring heart, with hands to match. But the call came out as only a garbled whisper, and memory came with it. Pietros was gone, sent away by Barca’s own hands. The Beast of Carthage willed his eyes open.

            He was in his own cell, he realized, though he had no idea how he had gotten there. He groaned, rolling onto his good side as he reached for the jug of water, they kept close to their bed. No, he kept, his bed, he reminded himself. He was alone now. He felt the heat of tears on his cheeks but he ignored them. It was only the pain and the brightness of the torchlight, he told himself. He had lost lovers before. He would not allow this loss to be the one to break him. But as he feel back into restless sleep, his fingers closed on a scrap of clothe. Pietros’ cloak, left strewn across the bed when they had taken him away. Barca dreamed, for the last time, of freedom and of his boy at his side.

~*~

            Pietros had barely emerged from the baths, when he heard it. The fiercest, most broken sound that had ever graced his ears. He followed the other slaves, all rushing towards the balcony. They stayed a careful distance behind their masters, well off the veranda, but there was still now mistaking what had happened down in the yard. The wife of Spartacus was dead.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

**_ Chapter 5 _ **

            They burned her in the evening, the woman who had been Spartacus wife.

            Barca stood in the eves, watching. He was not well enough to stand among the torchbearers, nor did he hold any want to.  Spartacus was a good man, for all the misgivings between them. He had loved his woman, this Sura, he’d called her, so much that he’d fought his way to the title of champion. But Barca had no want to answer the questions of his brothers, as to how he had come by such wounds, and beyond that, he was not sure he could carry the weight of the other man’s grief along with his own. His heart weighed heavy in his chest, the loss of his pride and honor and all hope of walking out of this ludus a free man. The world which he had always know had changed forever. His friend lay dying, perhaps to be just another victim of the Shadow of Death. The Thracian Dog had become champion, making Barca third in the ranking. Not that that mattered anymore, he was to be exiled to the pits, or at best, the early matches.

But no loss was so keenly felt as the loss of Pietros. Barca felt as if something had stolen a limb from him. He felt off balance and wrong. But he knew he must endure. He must find a way to work around the loss.  He must survive, for while he survived so would the boy. If this was what he must do to see his lover well kept than he would do it. But he did not have the strength yet to walk out into the yard, to look up at the villa where he knew he boy would be standing, dressed in black with all the other house slaves. He did not yet have it within him to set eyes upon the heart he’d torn from his chest with his own hands.

            But in his grief, Barca did not see that there were other eyes in the ludus, hungry eyes, that were not so keen to avert their gaze.

~*~

            Oenomaus considered himself an observant man. But after the previous night’s events, he was no longer so sure. He should have suspected Spartacus was up to some treachery before he’d even accepted the offered drink. But it was grief that had weighed on his heart, had eased his caution, and moved his hand. The idea of the champion’s wife being returned to his arms, it had brought up such strong memories. Most days he could light his candles and say his prays and go about his life. But some nights, the emptiness in his bed, in his room, in his heart, was too much and he would lie awake and say her name out loud until exhaustion claimed him.

It was the memory of Melitta that stayed his hand and stilled his tongue now. He knew he should tell their Dominus of what had nearly transpired. It was his duty as Doctore. But he knew the pain of holding beloved wife in his arms as she slipped away. It was not a fate he would wish on even the worst of men. The gods had punished Spartacus enough.

Yet Doctore was surprised once more, too look up onto the Veranda and see Pietros standing among the house slaves. The boy was looking at his feet, and even from such a distance, Doctore could see the emptiness in a body once so lively and warm. His brow furrowed. Why had the boy been sent to the house? And moreover, why had he not been told?

His eyes scanned the lines of men for Barca. But the Beast of Carthage was notably absent, a matter of still greater concern. Surely, he’d not purchased his freedom and left the boy behind? Barca could be cruel, Oenomaus had seen it more than once. But his friend had always held a deep affection for delicate things, and he was fiercely protective of what he viewed as his.

A motion caught Doctore’s eye, the shadow of a figure, moving stiff and slow back into the halls of the ludus. There was only one man so tall in the house of Batiatus, aside for Oenomaus himself.

The pyre was lit, and Doctore turned back to the matter at hand. He would break words with Barca soon enough. But for now he let himself be lost in memory for a moment. He would not ever forget the night he had had to place Melitta on a pyre to so similar to this one. To bury a wife was a burden no man should have to bear. But bear it he did.

At Dominus’ nod, he dismissed his gladiators, leaving the Thracian to mourn. With a firm hand on the new Champion’s shoulder, Oenomaus took his own leave.

The halls were somber and quiet now. All revelries had been had the previous night, but now there was heaviness to the place. They had all seen death, but of men lived who lived and breathed it. A dying woman, dropped so suddenly into their midst, had rattled the whole of the ludus, it seemed.

Oenomaus found his way to Barca’s cell, it’s had always been a path well know to him. They had been as friends once, and even now, there was a sense of respect between them. Oenomaus had not trained Barca, but he had fought along side him, during his days in the arena.

            Oenomaus was surprised to find the place dim and noticeably empty of Pietros’ presence. None of the boy’s belongs could be seen.  Even more worrisome was the long figure spread out on the pallet, Barca did not move when Doctore entered.

Even in the shadows, Oenomaus could see the man was in poor shape. His torso was swathed in filthy bandages, his left arm and shoulder much the same. When had Barca been so wounded? And why was Pietros in the house, not here tending the man, as he always did?

            “Barca,” he called from the door way, brows pulled together in both confusion and concern.

            The figure on the pallet stirred, slowly, painfully. The Carthaginian pushed himself wearily onto one elbow, turning his gaze on Oenomaus.  The Doctore grew infinitely more worried as he saw the other’s expression. There was not just weariness there, but also emptiness.

“What has happened to you,” he asked the gladiator in astonishment.

Barca heaved a heavy sigh, forcing himself to sit. It was obvious the movements pained him.

“I have been disgraced,” he said quietly, not looking at his old friend.

It seemed Spartacus’ plan had worked far too well. Much had changed will he had slept.

“Disgraced?” Oenomaus covered the length of the room in a few short strides, kneeling before the man, “Yesterday, your mind was filled with thoughts of purchasing freedom. Yet today I find you still here, wounded and alone and speaking of disgrace, while Pietros stands in the villa, among the house slaves. What has happened?”

“Plans for freedom were not the only thing that filled the mind,” Barca said, scrubbing a tired hand over his face,  “If the price of freedom could not be negotiated, I had plans to find it another way.”

Oenomaus was taken aback. Barca had spoken often enough, in hushed voice, about his intent to free himself and Pietros with his winnings. But despite his longing, Barca had always been loyal to the house of Batiatus. He was an honorable man, not the type to resort to such dangerous thoughts or deeds, especially not with Pietros in tow. For all his time in the ludus, the boy was not a warrior. He knew the weapons, but he’d never been taught how to handle them.

“Words of such betrayal reached Dominus ears through most trusted mouth,” Barca continued,  but there was a strangeness to him. There was none of the rage Oenomaus had expected, knowing Barca’s temperament.  But there was none of the righteous anger of a man betrayed. Instead, he seemed filled with something akin to longing, “I was punished for insolent thoughts, and I sent the boy away from me. Dominus sees value in him still, at keeps him in the house now, it would seem”

Something was not right, Oenomaus knew. Pietros was a kind boy with an open heart. He trusted too freely in Oenomaus’ opinion, but despite his best efforts, it had endeared the boy to him. And the youth cared for Barca, that was easy to see. It was not, the shallow admiration of the weaker seeking out the stronger, that Oenomaus had so often seen. Pietros was not afraid to challenge Barca, did not hesitate to sometimes tell the older man things he did not want to hear. Betrayal was no more in Pietros’ nature than it was in Barca’s, especially not betrayal towards the one he held so close to his heart.

“Words fall from your tongue claiming to be truth, still I can not help but doubt them,” Oenomaus pressed.

“Your doubt does not make them any less true,” Barca snarled, meeting the Doctore’s gaze for the first time since he had entered, “You stand a god only in the yard, not here, not without your whip in hand. Now leave me to rest, unless you have some command for me, _Doctore.”_

Oenomaus was struck to silence by the venom in Barca’s voice. Behind him the bird’s rustled nervously in their cage, unsettled by the sudden tension in the small cell. The man could not blame them. Never, had Barca used his title against him in such a manner, with such hatred.

            Still Oenomaus stood, and made to leave. He was a patient man, and an observant one. There was something deeper at work here, something he could not yet place.  It was plain to see that he could not get his answers from Barca, and he was sure it was more than stripped honor that stayed the man’s tongue. There was an unsure tugging in his chest. What had happened to the world while he’d slept that night? The man hailed as champion was the same man Oenomaus new to be a traitor, to have planned escape, and so nearly excuted. And yet a man more loyal to this house, and as honorable as any he had met, a man he had called friend, bore the punishment for such a crime. The world had fallen to shit. But this was his realm and nothing happened in this Ludus without his knowing the cause. He would see to that.

~*~

            Barca knew his words had fallen on unconvinced ears, but the man who had been his friend left all the same. Oenomaus was no more in a position to help him than anyone else, though Barca knew he would try. He was too honorable, holding the to heart the same teachings Batiatus the Elder had instilled in him many years ago. Barca had abandoned such ways a long time ago. He and the Doctore were very different creatures. For Oenomaus, the ludus had provided purpose to a lost and frightened youth. They had taken a beast and fashioned him into a man. But for Barca, this place had ever been a reminder of a life that was taken from him. He was a man they had fashioned into a beast. He had done many dishonorable things for the man he called Dominus, and he had the feeling he would have to do many more before this was all over.

            He lay back down, shakily, the pain of his injuries presented themselves now as a deep ache. He should rest while he could, who knew what dominus would do with him or when. Still, he could not stop his eyes from flittering to the cages. The birds looked woefully, their dark eyes soft and questioning, looking for the boy that tended them so well. They had done the same after Auctus had been taken.

            Barca sighed. Tomorrow, he would release them. They, at least, should be free.

~*~

            Pietros molded easily into his work in the house. Years spent in the ludus had taught him to stay quiet and out from under foot. He had an eye for detail and a careful hand. The old woman, Mora, seemed to notice and gave him more than enough work to keep him distracted. Domina treated all the slaves but Naevia as little better than moving furniture and he learned quickly that, so long as he stayed out from under foot, she meant no purposeful harm towards him.

            The pain was easing, in a way. Pietros forced himself to numbness, forced his hands and mind to his work. He knew this was the first step, to grew hard and let his skin grow tough. He would not let grief pierce through him anymore; he would not be weak.

            Still, in the darkest part of the night, crammed in beside the other slaves, it was hard to hold on to the thick knot of anger and rejection and determination that had been growing in the pit of his gut, feeding his need to find his own feet again. It was in these times he could feel himself wavering, that his treacherous mind would dream up some miracle where all was well again. That Barca truly loved him and that their separation was a necessity, that one day the House of Batiatus would fall, and they would be together, free and in love, as Barca had always promised. He would fall asleep to such wishes and they would follow him into his dreams. At least there, he did not have to remember what had passed.

            But it was scant days after his removal from the Ludus, that he was called for in the evening by Mora. She wore her usual aged scowl on her plump face, but there was a mischievous glint in her eye that Pietros had come to learn as a sign of good things. For all her cool manner and firm authority, she was not an unkind woman.

            “You’ve been called to the Ludus,” she told him, “meet the guards at the cellar gate when you’ve finished your work.”

            Pietros’ heart stopped for a moment in his chest. The ludus? He’d been called back to the ludus? All his half formed fantasies came rushing back to his mind and he could not help the smile that graced his lips, the first in days. Thoughts of Barca filled him, dispelling all the lingering anger he knew he should feel. Perhaps Dominus had seen to reason and all had been forgiven. Barca would take him into his arms again, would tell him that he was sorry, that were free men, never to be parted again. All he could manage was a grateful nod, and he hurried off to finish his chores.

            His hands were not so carful tonight as he carried trays and arranged food but he could not call up the need to care. All his thoughts, all his energy, was focused on what was to come. Excitement and nervousness coursed through his veins, thrumming in his blood, so hard it made his hands tremble. He finished quickly, sending words through another slave to Mora, letting her know he had gone.

            But going down the dank steps of the cellar, the shaking grew worse and his stomach began to churn unpleasantly, like it was full of tiny, frantic birds. His heart pounded. Could everything really be forgiven? Why else would Barca have called for him?

            An unfamiliar guard opened the gate, and nodded for Pietros to follow him. They boy’s feet knew the path better than this man’s but he obeyed and stayed behind, tracing the familiar way he could find in the dark. Left, right, left again, and then straight on. That’s where Barca’s cell was. But the guard had taken two left turns, surely that had not moved Barca from his cell?

            Pietros stopped his tracks, and he felt the little birds within him spiral down to their deaths. Before him, the last cell at the end of the corridor stood Gnaeus, watching the Egyptian with a leering, wolfish grin.

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

**_ Chapter 6 _ **

            Night had fallen before joyous news reached Oenomaus’s ear. Crixus had awoken. He found him being tendered, perhaps too carefully, but Domina’s  body slave. Naevia was still a slip of a girl, but Oenomaus could not help a smile. Crixus was a good man, the Doctore hoped in his heart that Dominus would match the two of them, as his father had matched Melitta to Oenomaus. It seemed the two would find joy in such a union, if their closeness was anything to judge.

            “Crixus,” he called, making his presence know to them.

Naevia pulled away, though the movement was hesitant. 

“You live,” he remarked, looking the man over with a well-trained eye. Crixus looked like hell, most likely felt it too. Oenomaus had not forgotten his own run in with the Shadow of Death. “My prayers are answered.”

“I would have more prayers to return me to the sands, to be with the men.”

 “You will rejoin your brother’s soon enough,” he said, a warm smile coming unbidden to his lips. Oenomaus could not stifle the pride in his heart. He’d molded this man with his own hands, taught him to fight, to survive, and to do so with honor. To see Crixus’s single-minded determination so strongly intact was pleasing sign from the gods.

“Brothers,” Crixus sighed, shaking his head weakly, “none have visited me, not even Barca.”

Oenomaus’s brow furrowed and he looked questioningly at Naevia. Usually the house slaves were always so quick to gossip, and beyond that, Crixus and Barca’s friendship was well known even outside the ludus. He was suspired the girl had mentioned nothing of the recent events concerning the man.

“Have you not told him?”

“The moment has not arisen,” there was a shadow of something in her voice…nervousness perhaps. But why be nervous of information already widely know in both the ludus and the house?

“Has he fallen in the arena,” Crixus asked, seeming to sense the unspoken tension.

“Far the opposite,” Oenomaus sad, with a sad shake of his head, “He has fallen only from grace.”

Crixus pinned his Doctore with a searching gaze.

“It seems that while Barca worked towards negotiations for freedom, he also wound together an alternative plan, should the battering fail to yield desired results.  There was talk of escape. Talk that reached the very ear of Batiatus himself.”

“The Beast of Carthage? What is Barca if not a gladiator, loyal to this house as you or I. How did such things reach Dominus’ ears?”

Oenomaus shrugged, though in his heart he agreed with such words. He was still searching for that piece to the puzzle.

“Supposedly, through the words of Pietros.”

“Says who?”

“Barca himself. When he was called to the house, he was beaten as punishment. Afterwards, he sent the boy from him. Pietros serves in the house now.”

Crixus made a chocked sound Oenomaus knew to be a laugh, but it quickly pattered out into a sound of pain. Crixus caught his breath.

“He’d sooner part with his own cock.”

Oenomaus nodded.  Crixus had never had a delicacy with words, but his point stood and Oenomaus was inclined to agree with it. Still, he was Batiatus’s man, and he must obey what words had come to him from his master’s lips. It did not mean he had to trust them.

“News found me surprised also,” he relented.

“He did not wish it, not truly,  but he had no choice,” Naevia burst out, suddenly. The nervousness was there still, clear in her open face, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“You shared words with him?” Oenomaus probed, smelling a lie.

“No, but I saw it in his eyes,” she said earnestly,  “as he was escorted back to the ludus. Even in his anger, I think some part him did not want the boy tainted by his misdeeds.”

 _A failed plan it seems, for the boy is punished all the same_ , Oenomaus thought but he stopped himself before he could part words from mouth. Things were not lining up. Perhaps it was time for him to follow another thread. He turned back to Crixus.

“Regain your strength, Barca does the same. Perhaps when you are both well you may speak with him on the matter yourself. And I would see you with a sword in hand soon.”

With a parting glance at Naevia, Oenomaus took his leave.  Tomorrow he would have words with the cripple.

~*~

Pietros forced himself to keep his feet, shoved away the trembling ache in his muscles. He could not be weak, not here, when their was a chance Gnaeus would fall upon him again, that he had changed his mind and readied himself for another go. Pietros stomach lurked at the thought of rough hands upon him again and he nearly retched. It had been a long time since any man had touched him with demand. He did not allow himself to remember kinder hands upon him.

As he worked his way slowly through the maze of halls, moving as gingerly as he could, trying to access the damage. His muscles were on fire and one eye was swollen shut, though the other would display some brilliant bruising of it’s own soon enough. His lip was split, his body covered in an array of bruises and bite marks.  He knew now why Gnaeus was known as such a fearsome gladiator. He did not just know how to deliver pain; he enjoyed it, he found pleasure in it. He got off on it.

 _Not all those who kill for glory bear such cruelty in their hearts,_ a voice in his head reminded him. He was hard pressed to catch the sobbing noise he made, before could escape through his lips. He would _not_ allow his thoughts there, of warm, calloused hands mapping his skin…

He took a deep breath, giving himself a hard shake. He could not afford to think that way. That time, whatever it had been, whatever it had meant, was over. He must find a way to survive in the world he’d been shoved into. Though if this were to be his life now, as Gnaeus’ ill-used pet, perhaps the better course would be to take his own life. If he did not find the strength to do it by his own hand, the hateful fuck would most likely deliver him to death sooner or later, if tonight had been any indication. Yet the thought brought Pietros an unexpected glimmer of hope. Not hope perhaps, but something akin to it. A sense of control, an option, an escape plan.

 

 “Pietros?”

The voice stopped him in his tracks, shaking him from his thoughts. His heart thundered against his ribs and he could feel his muscles shaking. Gnaeus had changed his mind after all.

But the hand that landed on his shoulder was a gently one, and the face that greeted him was that of Spartacus, green eyes sharp with concern. Pietros turned to face him, his head down. He’d always liked this man, had always respected him, and would have called him friend were their places in the world not so removed. He did not want Spartacus to see him like this, he wasn’t sure he could bear the shame of it just now.  

But the new Champion caught his chin, pulling his face into the light, examining the rising bruises.

“Gnaeus’ hand,” he asked, and there was a low growl to his voice that spoke of anger, “I will have words with “

“To what end!” Pietros snapped. He did not want this man’s pity. He was tired of pity. He wanted to scream, and shout, and to be angry. He wanted someone to hurt as he hurt, in mind and body and soul. He knew he should not make Spartacus the target of his outburst; the man had always been kind to him, and he too had felt the ache of loss only days ago. But the helpless rage inside of him could not be tempered now; he could not rein it in. It had to be released before it consumed him whole.

“Would they see me back to Barca’s side, as free men, as he always promised? Would it see unknown transgressions removed from mind? Would it wipe away the hurt already done?”

Spartacus’ face changed then, the rage gone and replaced with some confused sadness.

“Fate often take a man farthest from his heart, to his regret,” the champion said quietly and Pietros knew he was speaking of himself as much as Barca.

“A loss felt more keenly by those left behind,” the boy snarled, turning away before the man could speak again. He knew he could not hold himself together if the conversation continued, he could already feel himself cracking, breaking under the weight. He would not be weak in front of these men. But he saw a way now and he would forge it with his own hands.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

**_ Chapter 7 _ **

            Oenomaus prided himself on always rising before the sun, and he’d made a particular point to be found in the yard as it rose, since Spartacus had planned his escape. But this morning, he was surprised to find he was not alone.

            Barca sat on the steps, the wooden crates he kept his birds in lay empty beside him. He held one of the pigeons in hands. Cradled in the palms of such a man, the beast seemed terrible fragile. At the sound of his steps, Barca turned, face closed and wary.

            “Apologies,” Oenomaus said, with a nod and Barca’s shoulders relaxed, his face falling into an expression of vacant sadness.

            “None required,” the Carthaginian replied, “It is I who owe you an apology.”

            With a heavy sigh, Oenomaus tucked the whip into his belt and moved to sit at his friend’s side.

            “Words spoken under weight of pain, both in body and heart. In such conditions, we all say things we do not mean,” the former gladiator sat, looking up at the pink streak of sky.

            “It does not excuse such harshness in the presence of a friend, one I am no longer fit to hold company with.”

            Oenomaus’ brow furrowed and he leaned forward on his knees.

            “You release such beloved pets?”

            “They at least should be free,” Barca sighed, “no matter how it pains me to part with them.”

            “For a man so longing for freedom, you are quick to let go of the things you love.”

            Barca’s face turned sour but he said nothing.

            “What has happened Barca,” Oenomaus asked, dropping his voice, “ What madness has fallen upon this house?”

            Barca sighed, and the Doctore knew he wanted to speak, but something held his tongue. Instead he stood, walking a little closer to the edge. He threw the last bird into the free air, watching as it caught the breeze and flew away.

            “The madness of Rome,” Barca said, as Oenomaus came to join him, “And no matter what promises of freedom she gives, they are nothing but lies.”

            “One among us walks as a free man,” Oenomaus reminded him, “There is still hope.”

            Barca gave an indignant snort.

            “To carry around a wooden stick and live penniless, subsiding on nothing but wine and whores. What freedom is that?”

            Oenomaus shook his head. He had spent his whole life in this house, despite the age at which he had come here. It had been Tidus who had taught him that survival was not living, who had taught him to be a man of honor, who had molded him into what he was. He did not want to believe such treachery was unfolding, against all he had ever known, belched from the halls of the house that had raised him out of hell.

            He heard a stirring in the halls and he heaved a heavy sigh, resting a hand on Barca’s good shoulder.

            “Day’s training begins. You are not well enough yet to join them. See yourself to rest. And know that, whatever you have done, you will always be a friend in my eyes.”

            Barca nodded, turning to take Oenomaus hand, not as gladiator and doctore, but as friends. No more words passed between them, but Oenomaus knew now that there was something far bigger than any of them at work. Oenomaus glanced out over the edge of the cliff. There was a storm coming, but he could not see from where. He only hoped they were prepared for it.  

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

**_ Chapter 8 _ **

Spartacus found Barca much as he expected he would, but still it left him shaken. Where was the man who had been so boisterous, who stood a titan among his brothers? Where was the man with the sharp eyes and the quick tongue? Where was the beast of Carthage?

The shell of the man sat on his pallet, eyes closed as if in sleep. But he opened a lid and shot Spartacus a look of distaste.

“Champion,” he said, and there was a hard, venomous edge to his voice.

“Barca,” he replied,  “ I would have words.”

“To what end,” the other grunted, moving to sit, though still with some difficulty. Whatever offense he had been punished for, Batiatus men had been thorough.

“Pietros.”

Barca’s expression soured.

“Then your words fall on deaf ears. I do not wish to speak of him.”

Spartacus felt a hot flair of anger in his chest, the memory of Pietros’s battered face slipping back into his mind.

“Do you not know of his fate, “ the Thracian snarled, “or do you not care?”

He saw the movement, the way the muscles bunched as Barca moved, far faster than Spartacus had anticipated. It took only that moment of shock to give Barca his in, to use the advantage of size. He drove the champion back into the wall. But it was easy to see Barca did not have the strength to hold him there long, the muscles of his shoulders and arms jumping beneath the bandages. One well placed blow to his cloth-swathed abdomen, and the Thracian would be free. Still, there was something in Barca’s gaze that stayed his hand. It was a looks he had seen often reflected in his own. Pain. Regret.

“Don’t,” Barca growled, low and dangerous, a voice that stayed Spartacus hand before he could retaliate.

“It was you that broke his heart and cast him away. You may as well have handed him to Gnaeus,” the Thracian shot back, testing. Something didn’t line up. His refusal to speak of the boy, his fierceness at the mere mention of Pietros’s name. He had always been so possessive of the boy, so protective.

“You think I don’t know that,” the beast of Carthage snarled and for a moment Spartacus could see a glimpse of the man he knew behind those dark eyes. The arm pressed against his throat was dropped and Barca turned away.

“Why then? Why cast him out?” the Thracian questioned, “If you do not believe him the traitorous lover you said he was, if you do not blame him for your punishment, why send him from your side? You know how strongly he relied on your protection.”

“To be at my side now means only danger for him now, not protection,” Barca relented, his gaze hard as he stared down the other man. It shook Spartacus, the raw hate and fury and loss in those dark eyes. It was an expression he had often seen reflected in his own.

“Why?”

“You know better than anyone that taint that flows out from that house.”

~*~

Days flowed by, one into the other, a constant stream of monotony that Pietros had almost grown comfortable with. Spartacus was the new champion, the crowd favorite, and Batiatus was making coin hand over fist. As his master’s purse swelled, so did the work of the slaves. New luxuries arrived every day, and the house itself had fallen into a near chaotic stream of renovations. There was always work to be done now, always tasks that demanded his attentions. Pietros was a quick learner and his eye for detail had caught Mora’s notice. He was competent, he knew, and his competence made him a thing of value to his masters.  But he kept his head low around the other slaves. He longed for anonymity, but their stares and whispers were constant. Rumor spread of why he had come to the house, stories of him being a gladiator’s whore. It was Naevia who often hushed them, shooing them away from their gossip and back to their work. He was grateful to her for it, and always graced with as much a smile as he could manage. Still he made no attempt to reach out to her; he did not want friends. He wanted to fade. And after the newness of his arrival wore off and the house began to swell with all manner of new things, Pietros began to melt into the background, just as he had wished. It became easier to be forgotten and that made it easier to forget. His days were filled with a constant stream of work, of setting tables, and arranging rooms, of cleaning, and bowing and serving.

It was the nights that were hard.

Most of them he spent in the house, crammed into the slaves quarters with the others. With no work to keep his hands busy, his thoughts were allowed to wander. He could not fight sleep every time, and in sleep, memories came unbidden, memories so sweet and familiar he could almost taste them when he woke again. But with the sun, with reality, they all withered to bitter ash in his mouth. When he first woke and found his face wet with tears, the shame had nearly burned him through. He did not want to be weak. But after a time, even that faded.

Often though, he was called to the ludus. Success had put Batiatus in a generous mood; many below took the opportunity to find favor with their Dominus. Gnaeus piled on victory after victory and sought his reward in Pietros’ flesh. He had quickly grown bored with the outright beatings, and his methods of pain grew subtler. Pietros  had to wonder if the man had been chastised for so badly marring him in the beginning, the gladiator took special care in leaving his most visible marks were they would not be seen by guests. It became just another twisted game to him, seeing how much hurt he could inflict before Pietros’ skin bruised.

But at least, even in this, there was a routine. It was words at first, cruel things whispered into Pietros’ ear, like worms slithering into his skull. He followed every command, every request.  As the whispers shifted into growls, the pain came, the torture that would wring Pietros out. He fought back or tried to get away, but only a little, only as much as he knew the man wanted him to. And then, when he was too exhausted, too broken to provide his attacker any more entertainment, he would serve the evenings final purpose. The rape itself was always the worst part, though it was usually over the quickest.  He forced himself to close his eyes, to breathe, and to forget that there had been a time when he had been a thing of value, that once he had thought himself treasured, and protected, and loved.

But at the very least, it was formulaic. It was predicable. Gnaeus would work himself into a frenzy, trying to wring those sounds of fear and pain from Pietros’ lips; the more the boy cried out, the more malleable he allowed himself to be, the quicker Gnaeus’ blood would rise, the quicker he would find completion.

When it was finally over, Pietros would drag himself back upstairs into the house, the leering guard at his back. Sometimes the man would say things too him, petty insults about the position he now found himself in. He ignored them. They could say no worse things about him than the things he had already thought about himself.  He would scrub away the taint of the ludus from his skin and then fall to his bed. It was only on those nights that he slept without dreams, too exhausted for them.

            But he there was in a peace in him of late. Since the first night he had returned from Gnaeus’ cell, a plan had been brewing in the back of his mind. They could take everything from him, but he still had one piece left to play. Himself. To take his own life, to rob those who harmed him of their plaything, it felt like his own little piece of rebellion. He kept the thought close and never spoke of it, but he thought of it always. How would he do it? When? Where? What would it feel like? Would it hurt for long? Would it be over quickly?

            He’d thought of poison but that was lengthy and expensive, and while time was in good supply, coin was not. A knife to his wrists or throat or heart or belly seemed a good choice, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving such a mess, to be cleaned up by others as helpless to the whims of his masters as himself. He had contemplated the cliff or the balcony many times but that brought in the issue of avoiding the guards, and beyond that, he wanted them to know what he had done. Gnaeus, Ashur….but most of all Barca.

The idea presented itself during his daily choirs, hanging new curtains for the Domina. He was taller than all the other house slaves by half a head or more, and so such tasks were almost always entrusted to him. It wasn’t until he stepped off the stool, straightening the hangings, that the thought occurred. He would hang himself.

He acted quickly and quietly, spiriting away the things he would need, thinking of the opportune place, given his height and weight. And for the first time in a long time, Pietros felt as if he could breath again.

So when night feel, Pietros snuck away, tucking himself into a small guest room at the far end of the house. He sat on the bed, finger the fine threads that had been twisted together to form the rope. It was silk smooth and heavy, used for tying back the heavy curtains on warm days.

He closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment and let himself remember, just this once. Not only his memories of Barca, but further, to the days when his mother had lived and his sisters, before he had been torn form their arms by a slavers rough hands. Some part of him wanted to mourn the freedom he would never know. His mother had been born a slave, and so had he. How could he miss a life he’d never lived?

He didn’t hear the shuffling of her feet or the quickness of her breath; he didn’t even know she was there until she laid a hand on his own.

He started, jerking away from the touch, torn so abruptly from his own mind by the reminder of the outside world.

Naevia did the same, dancing away as if she’d startled herself.

“What are doing here,” he asked and his voice sounded hollow, he released, with a sudden flare of embarrassment, that his face was wet with tears.

“You’re going to take your life, aren’t you,” she asked, taking a few tentative steps towards him again.

He wanted to be angry with her, but he found he couldn’t, like everything had drained out of him. He nodded. She was crouching at his side then, easing the soft rope from his fingers, setting it gently on the floor as if it were made of glass. Pietros looked at her quizzically. He was not Naevia’s friend; they had barely shared a handful of words with her. They knew each other only in halfhearted smiles and eyes rolled over the other slaves gossiping. Yet here she was, easing away the instrument of his escape from his numb fingers. Perhaps it was the look in her eyes, the soft sadness for a boy she barely knew. It was like the loss of him would pain her and it reminded him of his mother, what little he could remember of her.

“Why,” Naevia asked, letting her hands cover his own. Her brows furrowed in concern.

“I don’t have the strength for this life any more, “ he said, though he wasn’t sure where the words had come from. He felt the tears rise again and he tried to push them down but he couldn’t. There was a hot, boiling knot in his chest, all the things he had tried to remove himself from, frothing up out of him. He hurt. He _ached._ A sob tore it’s way out of his chest, slithering between clenched teeth before he could stop it.

Naevia saw it, the change, seemed to recognize something in him. He remembered, somewhere in the back of his mind, the looks she had cast Crixus, the way the Gaul had looked at her, and he remembered now that the man was dying.  There were tears in her own eyes and he knew she had borne these same thoughts not long ago.

Her small fingers squeezed his hand, and there was a fierce determination in her eyes, as if the very force of her will could keep them both alive.

“We can not all be strong,” she said, in that quiet voice.

He did not realize she had reached for him until he was in her arms and he wrapped around her in return. He did not have the strength to bear the weight alone, but neither did she, it seemed. Perhaps together, though, they could survive a little while longer.

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

**_ Chapter 9 _ **

Barca felt the turning in his stomach, seeing a man so great, a friend, in such dire condition. He eased himself to the bench at Crixus’ side, feeling the ache and pull of his own muscles. Still he smiled. The man before him was such a far cry from the quiet, easily frightened young man who had come to them all those years ago. There had been a time when he had wanted to hate Crixus, had wanted anger against the man to fill the empty place left by Auctus’ absence. But he never could a thing he was glad of now. He had been privileged to call the man before him friend and have the sentiment returned in kind. But he knew Crixus, his devotion to honor and to this Ludus. Be it the truth or the lies he was forced to feed the others, he knew this man would turn from him. He sighed, scrubbing a tired hand across his face.

Crixus’ stirred, blinking blearily at him. A tired smile broke across his face as he reached out a hand.

“I thought you had forgotten me, brother.”

Barca leaned forward, clasping the man’s forearm.

“Never, brother.”

Crixus fell back against the pallet with a grunt.

“There has been strange stories told of you,” Crixus said, “Stories that you went to barter for freedom, and came back punished for talk of escaping. Stories that you sent your boy from your side.”

Barca’s face fell. He did not want to look Crixus in the eye. He did not want to lie to him.

“Not stories. Truths.”

Crixus cursed.

“I will not believe them,” He said, and his gaze was hard, “I do not know what pulls lies from your tongue but I will not believe them. You love that boy more than your own life, though you would never admit it. You would never truly entertain the thought of escape, if not for consideration for your own life, then for his.”

“It appears I am not the man you think you know,” Barca snarled, quietly.

“It appears I know you better than you know yourself,” Crixus shot back.

Barca sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“Let us speak no more of this,” he relented, “You live, even against the shadow of death. No small feat.”

Crixus made a sound that may have been a snort, but it was swallowed down as a sound of pain.

“But still I loose title of champion. And while the fuck Spartacus stomps about the yard, I lay here to rot. Forgotten.”

“Not forgotten,” Barca sighed, “At least not by me. And I have seen the girl, Naevia was it, in the halls these past days?”

He shot Crixus a knowing smile. Barca had ever encouraged the man’s fascination with her. The comment earned him a smile in turn.

“Domina sends her to tend me,” Crixus clarified. They had never spoken of Crixus’ visits to the house when Dominus was away, but Barca knew. It did not take a mastermind to know what a man of Crixus’ form and women such as Domina were about when her husband was gone. Crixus took no pride in it, often set himself to the baths after, and so Barca left well enough alone. His pursuit of Naevia had returned some bit virility and humor to him.

Still, there was a hard pan of envy in his heart, even against so dear a friend. Knowing the man before him was finally able to snatch some small moments of quiet with a girl he had eyes for, while Barca’s own heart was torn of from his chest, never to return.

“I am happy for you,” Barca said, trying valently to tell himself it was not a half lie, “and her. Regain strength. You will find your place as champion again, for you are still The Undefeated Gaul. Perhaps one day Domius will see fit to gift you with Naevia, as Oenomaus was once gifted with Melitta.”

Crixus smiled, seemingly day dreaming on the idea.

The sound of soft steps pulled their attention to the door. Naevia’s eyes flickered to Barca in surprise and he knew it was time to take his leave, before Crixus was of a mind to question him again. To lie to Oenomaus was hard enough, to lie to Crixus would be harder still.

“I will leave you two then,” he said, standing stiffly.

“Take care brother. Heal. I would have you at my side again, when we enter this new world of Spartacus reign,” Crixus said with a tired smile.

Barca nodded.

“A reign you will see short lived, I am sure.”

Barca turned away before his smile cracked and fell to darkness.

~*~

Morning came to early for Naevia. She had not slept, not which such thoughts heavy on heart and mind. She and Pietros had not spoken much, but they had stayed at each other’s side until nearly dawn. She longed, with every fiber of her being, to reveal what had truly happened the night the Dominus had called the to the house. It was only self-preservation, for the both of them, which stayed her tongue. If Lucretia were to find out she had revealed the truth to him, she’d kill them both. Still, she had stayed at his side as long as she had needed him, she owned him that kindness at least. And she had to admit; there was a part of her who had been comforted by him in return. In the long hours before Crixus had awoken, her thoughts had wandered to what she would do, if he were to die. Only once had it strayed to far as the idea of ending this, not because she felt she could not live without him, but because she felt without him, there was no other reason to try endure this life of basic servitude, to belong to no one but her masters again. Now that she had had a taste of affection, outside of what was deemed fit by her Domina, she was not sure she could go back to a life where even those she was allowed to care about were picked and chosen by someone else. Diona’s loss had broken her, the loss of Crixus too might have been all it took to shatter her the rest of the way.

But the thought had been quickly pushed away as her grief had begun to clear. It would have done none of them any good, for her to sacrifice herself so. It would not have served to damage Lucretia in any way other than an inconvenience. For now, Crixus lived and, though still weak, his breath allowed them to time alone together. She did not like seeing him in pain but she couldn’t help the happiness she felt at his side. It made he ache all the more for Pietros. Naevia knew she was cherished, and could spend time with the object of her affections, while the man she longed to called friend was crushed under the wait of other people’s lies.  Her own included.

Still, thoughts lingered as she went about her chores. Her fondness for Pietros grew day by day though they spoke little before last night. She saw some of herself in the youth and it made her heart ache to see him so broken. Still, it swelled again at the thought of being at Crixus’ side once more.

The guards rarely accompanied her beyond the gate anymore. She supposed they would rather return to their dice games than keep an eye on a little girl. But she didn’t mind. The ludus did not scare her so much as it once did and it was nice to be alone with her thoughts and daydreams.

But mind lost track of feet today and she nearly ran head long into Oenomaus.  Large hands reached out to steady her shoulders and she gave him a grateful smile, which he returned in kind.

“Naevia,” he said fondly, “I was just coming to seek you out. I would have words.”

Naevia’s heart rocketed up into her chest, though she could not figure why. She had ever trusted Oenomaus, even in the days before he was doctore. When she was still a child, the man had dotted on her and Diona, sneaking them treats and trinkets when he came to the house or sending them back with Melitta when she returned. But now there was a fierce curiosity in his eyes, one Naevia feared she knew how to satisfy, but had been strictly forbidden to do so.

“How fares Pietros?”

She sighed, a question not so difficult to answer.

“He still adjusts to living in the house, but he has taken well to it. Still, hearts need time to heal. I think his will, one day.”

Oenomaus nodded, his gaze sad. He must have held some sliver of affection for the boy himself.

“It is a strange thing, that Barca would risk all for freedom, then in the aftermath of being found out, send the things he most loves away from him,” the Doctore mused, more to himself than Naevia. She ached, in that moment, to spill the truth. But her love for Oenomaus and her growing fondness for Pietros could not out weigh her fear of the domina.

Naevia offered only a sad smile and a shrug, ready to slip away before the truth could slip form her tongue. But Oenomaus was faster, side stepping his massive form into her path. His face was serious, questioning.

“Did he speak to you of his plans for life outside the ludus, before the negotiation?”

“No.”

Oenomaus nodded.

“Did he exchange words with Ashur? The Syrian was there, was he not?”

Naevia swallowed hard.

“I-I can not recall.”

“Surely if you set your mind to the task,” he said, and despite his smile, for the first time in her life, Naevia truly feared him.

“Apologies, I must see to Crixus, as my Domina commands.”

Still Oenomaus did not move.

“The fear in your eyes betray the lie on your tongue,” he said quietly.

“Your questions put lives in harms way, mine among them,” she hissed, “Please. Let me pass.”

Oenomaus relased her then and it was all she could do not to run to Crixus’ side.

 

~*~

Oenomaus found the bath’s crowded with bodies, but  a single command from his lips cleared the place.

“I seek information,” he snapped at Ashur. He had never had any patience for the worm, but he need the man now. The pieces of the puzzle were not only scattered but actively fighting his efforts to put them back together.

“Of what kind,” the Syrian replied, his usual arrogance grating against Oenomaus’ nerves.

“Barca. I understand he made wager upon Theokoles’ fight?”

The Syrian looked him plain in the face, with a smugness uncharacteristic for even him.

“And won a small fortune, now sadly returned to the hands of the Dominus. Repayment for lives spared, despite the severity of the crime committed.”

“Lives?”

“Pietros lives under dominus roof only because dominus allows it,” Ashur said with a shrug and something clicked in Oenomaus brain. There was nothing Barca would not do for that boy, even if protecting him meant destroying his own life. But protect the boy from what? Whispers of escape? Or something greater and more dangerous still?

Oenomaus nodded, careful not to belay his thoughts.

“Who else was present at the negotiations?”

Ashur shrugged, thinking.

“Only Barca, Dominus, and myself. If I had known though, what information had reached dominus ears, I would never have suggested to help Barca barter for hi his freedom, “There was a wolfish grin on Ashur’s face that betrayed many things, but regret was not among them, “Such a nasty business.”

Oenomaus frowned. A hole in the story, one he would grab hold of.

“Naevia claims to have seen the incident, yet she make no mention of your presence.”

Ashur laughed and Oenomaus blood boiled. He hated this man, more than he had ever hated a member of this ludus.

“She is a simply thing,” Ashur waved dismissively, “her mind it..”

“Stories in conflict,” Oenomaus snarled, “Three people at one event. Barca, Naevia, and you. And yet no story meshes with the other. A matter of concern. If I find out there is more to Barca’s disgrace…we shall have words.”

And with that, the Doctore removed himself. He was not sure how much longer he could trust his hands not to choke the life from such arrogant throats.

**_ ~*~ _ **


	10. Chapter 10

**_ Chapter 10 _ **

~*~   

            The nights held less fear now, Pietros discovered, now that he had found a soul to feel safe with. The idea of death by his own hand never left him, it was always resting in the back of his mind. A final option.  But it was Naevia’s words that had clung to him as days and weeks passed.

            _We cannot all be strong._

            He knew the words were true and at the same time very not true. Because was strong, but not in a way he thought she recognized. She had a gentle heart and kind soul, one that had managed to remain unbroken. Pietros hoped, some where inside him, he would find would find his own strength, not the kind he found in Naevia, or the kind he saw in the ludus, but one that belonged only to him. He would make himself strong, because he was the only one who could.

            It started with little things, shedding off of old ways.  He found reasons to enter conversation with other slaves, he found ways to please Mora and garner conversation. She was a wise woman. She knew not only how to count but to read and write. She knew many things about medicine, and about the birthing of children and she regaled Pietros with stories of the places she had lived before she was given to the house of Batiatus. He liked when she smiled, which wasn’t often, but her plump face would light up, right to her eyes when she did.

            Pietros began to practice little acts of defiance as well. He began to let his hair grow, twisting it from root to tip each night as he fell asleep, working it into locks as his mother had worn her hair. He took a knife to an old scar, carving openings in his skin until the aged mark was expanded into the design of his own making. He started with small ones, odd scratches he’d acquired over the years. He knew his mother’s people did this, would take knives and pins and puncture meaningful things into their flesh. As his skill improved, began to imagine what he would one day do with the brand on his arm, what change it into. That gave him hope. Domina did not seem to be opposed, or even to notice and so he kept them as his personal victories.

            He grew bold, even in regards to Gnaeus. He find the best ways to leave his body when the gladiator put hands upon him, the best way to forget who he was in that moment. It drove the gladiator mad, that blankness in his toy’s eyes. Pietros hoped in his heart that Gnaeus would soon grow bored, and release him from this torment.

            It was night, and dancing on the edge of sleep, Pietros decided his next step. His fingers touched the gold piece that clung to the shell of his ear. It was warm and familiar and he could still remember the first time he had seen it. The way Barca had laid it in his hands. The Carthaginian had been trying to woo him and at first it had not worked. Pietros did not want to belong to anyone then, and he wished valiantly that he had kept that head about him. Barca’s kindness had been tempting, though he’d resisted for a long while. It was not until death nearly took the man that Peitros had relented. He had not wanted Barca to die. And even know, though all the hurt, he did not wish death on the man. He wanted to. He wished he could. But in his heart there was still love for the beast, one he could not dislodge. It would always remain.

            But as he traced the lines etched in the metal, remembering the first time he had warn it, sitting at Barca’s side, waiting for the man to wake from a sleep born of illness and injury, he knew he must let it go. What was past was past, and he must find his future, or be drowned by the things that were. Memory was a heavy enough burden all on it’s own.

 

~*~

Weeks passed and Barca felt the strength returning to his limbs, felt flesh and muscle began to knit. But it was pride that forced him back to the sands, that moved his hands through the familiar motions of spear and shield, despite the looks of shame and damnation cast upon him. He was fallen, in the eyes of many, not fit to train among them. It was yet to be seen what Dominus would do with him but one thing was clear, the Beast of Carthage was now only a beast.

But that gave him strength, it’s own way. He did not have to uphold the façade of a man any more. He did not have to play their games. He felt the heat of their gaze at his back and it fueled the fire inside him, stoke the flames of rage and hate he had let go to embers. It awoke now, more ravenous than before. He among these men had lost everything. His family had been taken from him, the last thread severed by his hand, pulled by roman strings. And yet for years, he had served them well. He had been their entertainer and their protector. He had been their watch dog and their murderer. And the one time he had even tugged at his own chain, the one time he had thought of another before Rome, of sparing a gentle heart from his wicked deeds, he was punished for it. He had his whole life, his future, ripped from him anew. And yet these dogs, those he had once called brother, had the audacity to look upon him with contempt.

            The new recruits brought out his fire as well, as they always had. There had always been some cruel need in his heart to break the young one’s the untried ones, as he had been broken. To them, he had always been subtlety cruel and outwardly mocking, in the past, when position had allowed him. They would know their place. It was different now, when Oenomaus would call his name, pair him with one of the recruits. He was punishing and unforgiving. He knocked the German pups senseless the first time he faced the. They younger had sense as much as skill and raised his fingers but the older was all animal fury. He would not stop until sense was stolen from him, his eye rolling up in his head. Secretly, Barca enjoyed him the most, enjoyed seeing the hate he felt reflected in the eyes of another. He enjoyed beating that fury from a yet untrained body. It was self serving, he know, but every time he knocked the snarling youth to the sand it was like fighting himself, like fighting the man he had once been. The man he now hated.

            The fighting allowed him to forget, kept his eyes from flickering to the house, waiting and wanting for even the smallest glimpse of dark skin and endless eyes. But still the reminders of his loss were constant.

            He focused much attention to sparring with Crixus as well. The man was his friend, and he saw the Gaul struggled to find his place in once more, now that they had stepped back out on to the sands. Spartacus was champion here. His word was law. A thought that was constantly grating at Crixus, driving him to distraction. Barca did what he could to reroute such thoughts, for it gave him a something to set his own mind to as well. But he could not stop every quarrel between the two men.

            No gladiator took more joy in Barca’s falling than Gnaeus. With Barca and Crixus removed from glories for the time being, Gnaeus stood shoulder to shoulder with Varro as second man in the ludus, even if there was no love between him and the Thracian. But seeing himself elevated, Gnaeus spurned Barca more outwardly than any other as well.

            It came to a head at mid day meal, less than a week after Barca had returned to his training. Barca ate alone, as he did most days now, without Pietros’ or Crixus’ company. Crixus had returned to them, despite Medicus’ concerns. But he had been called up to the house again. Apparently Domina thought him back to form for her own uses.

            Barca noticed the Thracian’s gaze on him often, and once was even given unspoken invitation to join but he refused. He did not wish their still new and unfamiliar company.

He ate the tasteless porridge in silence, trying not to let thoughts wander to far beyond the ludus walls. But he could not help himself. Bare nights ago he had shared words with Ashur, corned the little fuck in the baths. He’d threatened the worm with death in his rage, ready to ring the scrawny neck that had put him here. Even wounded, he could take a man so unskilled as Ashur. But the snake had his venom. A deal made in secret, that if he were to end up dead, a guard within the house would see Pietros’ life taken in kind. Something unassuming, like a tumble down the stairs, or a misplaced step to close to the balcony’s edge.  But which guard, Barca could not know. That was Ashur’s insurance. Barca had snarled and cursed, but the fact remained the same. Ashur had caught him, a bear in a trap. The worse could easily be lies but it was not a chance Barca would take, he would not gamble Pietros’s life. The Syrian sneered at him as he walked past and Barca felt the insane urge to fix his fingers to the fading bruises he had left on Ashur’s throat.

He turned back to his food instead.

But a body at his side caused him to tense. Gnaeus.

“You know I never could understand your tenderness towards your boy,” he said and Barca clenched his jaw.

It was no secret that Gnaeus had found a place between Pietros’s thighs, nor that his appetites tended towards roughness.. Still, Barca had stayed his tongue for all it churned his stomach. He had known men like Gnaeus. When they found their pride or ego damned they punished the first thing in their grasp that did not have the strength to fight back. Barca’s words had caused the boy enough harm. Still to be so close to a monster he once thought a man made his fists clench in fury.

“I see it now. He’s so delicate, despite the darkness of his skin. He bruises so easily. And when he weeps,” Gnaeus chuckled, “Now that is a sight. There is nothing better to look upon than him, eyes black and wet with tears, when his lips are wrapped around my cock.”

Muscle moved before mind and Barca could hear his own voice roaring in his ears. He would kill Gnaeus. He would rip the man to pieces; he would shred the flesh for his bones.

Gnaeus was on his feet now too, smiling grotesquely as Barca swung at him. But size was not to his advantage here. Gnaeus caught him in his bad shoulder, knocking him against the wall. Barca snarled and came at the man again.

Only to find he was not there.

Gnaeus tumbled, head over heels, in to the yard and Spartacus followed, falling on him like a beast. The bones of Gnaeus’ nose cracked sharply under Spartacus fist. Barca watched the scene in confusion. Why had the Thracian joined the fight?

The crack of a whip filled the air.

“ENOUGH,” Oenomaus shouted, Doctore once more as he  advanced on his men, “What is the meaning of this foolishness?”

Barca opened his mouth to speak but a firm hand caught his arm. Varro. He gave the roman a questioning look. He only gave Barca small shake of his head in warning, his eyes flickering to Spartacus.

            “Pietros,” Spartacus panted, his gaze landed not on Doctore but on Barca, “and for the injuries given to him by Gnaeus hand. A reminder that the boy wears our brand, and I count him as a brother.”

~*~

That night, they watched Segovax die. And the reality hit Barca. He had no brother’s here. None of them did.

~*~


	11. Chapter 11

**_ Chapter 11 _ **

~*~

 “Mira”

The slave turned, her spine stiffening. The last thing she wanted was to cross the path of Antonius or one of the other more…viral….guards. Especially on her way to the champion. She had been whored enough times to know that no man would accept a gift still stinking of another, and that any punishment that would come to bear from such insult would be suffered by her and her alone. She could not be denied by him again, or Domina would ruin. Still, she turned, head cast down and hands before her.

But it was only the Egyptian boy, casting a wary glance of his shoulder as he slipped around the corner. Her brows furrowed, she had not taken him for one so forward as to proposition her while their masters were at home, or ever to have wanted to.

“Pietros?”

“You go to see Spartacus, yes,” he asked, moving closer to her, his voice hushed.

Mira raised an eyebrow. She’d seen the boy in the ludus before, constantly in Barca’s shadow, it was no secret Pietros had been his boy. His presence in the house had been no small bit of gossip. But rumor followed far fetched rumor and Mira had listened to none of them. She was a realist and the youth’s presence was of little consequence to her. But perhaps, now freed of the beast, he sought attention from still higher vantages. She had not pegged the soft spoken young man as one to scramble for position, but then again, they all did what they deemed necessary.

“I do,” she replied, with a shrug, swallowing down the tiny birds that fluttered in her stomach at the thought of taking the champion of Capua to her thighs.

“I would ask favor of you.”

Mira was quiet for a moment, thinking. Pietros’ large, dark eyes watched her in the torchlight. Young, hurting, jaded. Just like the rest of them. She sighed, despite herself.

“Speak and see it considered,” she relented.

“If you are in the ludus, would you inquire about Barca? “

Mira was taken aback.

“Barca? Why?”

Pietros lowered his own gaze, and she watched his hands unconsciously go to his ear, touching cuff he always wore.

“Dominus took him to the pits tonight. To fight there. I wish to know if he still lives.”

The sadness in the boy’s voice, it caused an odd aching in her breast. She had heard word of their falling out. Certain details of the rumors had been consistent, talk of the cruel words the man had served the youth who was so faithful to him, so in love with him. Sadness flared into anger; she remembered innocence and youthful adoration, though it was a fleeting memory, one long stolen from her.

“But why? Did he not cast you away, even after promises of freedom? Did he not doom you to work in the house, to serve as Gnaeus’s whore? I would say gods fucking take the man. How do you not hate him?”

Pietros smiled, a sad, broken, bitter quirk of the lips. It didn’t carry to his eyes, as it once had.

“I did, but I loved him once too” Pietros gave a small, empty laugh, “It’s strange how the two can be such close bedfellows.”

“No longer?”

He shook his head and she saw that she had been wrong about him. He was not a boy, tied up in youthful innocence; he was a man who had lost all. 

“No longer. I cannot think of loving him, because the thought alone weighs too much. But I do not have the strength to had him either, despite the ease of the task.”

Mira turned the words over in her head. She had never truly loved a man. She had liked and lusted after them, Oenomaus and Medicus she almost respected, but men were snakes and as a general rule, their only care rested between their thighs. She could not imagine clinging to a man who had cast her away. Still, there was a raw truth in the Egyptian and it moved her. She was not so cold as some of the house slaves assumed her to be.

“If opportunity presents itself, I will inquire, ” she sighed.

Pietros nodded, reaching to his ear again, plucking of the shiny cuff. He took her wrist with a gentle hand, and pressed the piece of jewelry into her palm. She looked at him, confused.

“Gratitude.”

“I can not take this,” she protested. She had never owned something so nice, surely Domina would acquire how she’d come by it. She did not know why Domina would be angry about a deal between slaves, but then again, Domina got angry about a lot of odd things if the mood took her and Mira feared her wrath, as any wise slave would.

“Then give it away,” he said, turning away, “I don’t want it anymore. It weighs far too much these days, for me to carry.”

Mira nodded, looking at the bit of gold cradled in her hand. It was nicer than anything she’d ever worn, nicer than anything any man had ever given her. She slid it into the pocket of her dress and headed for the stares.

Weaving through the halls of the ludus, she stayed the guard with a look. Lucius was his name, a horse faced creature who had no way with women. All it took was a few bats of her eyes to get him to turn his back and let her slip from site for a moment. She had whored down here enough times to know Barca’s cell from the others. He never requested women. He never needed to.

She had never really seen the man up close, the Beast of Carthage. He was massive, but thinking back he was not so much taller than Pietros. The wideness of his frame and the bulk of his muscles lent to illusion she supposed. His dark skin was painted with blood, his ropes of hair shielding his face as he stitched together the flesh of his thigh.

She cleared he throat, and shuffled her feet. A small noise but it got the man’s attention. His eyes had a wildness about them that nearly made her step back, feeling akin to a mouse in under the gaze of a cat.

“Wrong cell, girl,” he growled, turning back to his work.

“You are Barca, are you not?”

“I am, but I’ve no use for cunt.”

Mira scowled.

“Nor I for your cock. I have been sent for someone else. But I was asked to deliver something to you first.”

She fished the ear piece out of her pocket, slipping her hand through the bars, holding the trinket out to him.

He was on his feet then, and she could see his face had changed. All the cold distance was gone from it, replaced with something sad and terribly concerned.

“How gave you this,” he asked, catching her wrist. He sounded almost panicked.

“Pietros,” she said, straining against his grip, “He asked me to return it to you.”

 _And to see that you were alive,_ She thought. But she would not tell him such. He did not deserve the knowledge. She knew only of what had happened to Pietros by hearsay, but that was enough. To protect one such as them, then to toss them away, it was like throwing a lamb to the wolves. It was something all slaves knew. Barca had known and had done it any way. She didn’t need to know the man to know he was not worthy of the youth’s concern.

            Barca cradled the trinket in his hand as if it was made of spun glass and Mira could see the ache in his expression. Good. Let him hurt.

            “He said he could not bear the weight of it any longer.”

            Barca nodded, his fingers closing around the gold.

            “Nor should he have to,” he sighed, “Tell him thank you. For returning it.”

            Mira scowled, pressing herself to the bars. Who was he to offer thanks when the affront was his?

            “Tell him yourself,” she hissed, “Gnaeus sends for him often enough.”

            And with that she turned on her heel and was gone. She did not ask herself why it mattered to her, hurting this many she had never spoken to before to night, all in an effort to defend a youth she barely knew. Perhaps it was that she saw some of herself in Pietros. Perhaps it was because she knew the havoc on selfish man could reap on an already broken heart.

~*~

            Her blood sang, and she could not help but revel in the wetness between her own thighs. To touch Crixus, to be touched by him, she saw now it had been more than worth the risk of taking the key. Would that she had had more time, she would have taken him to her thighs right then. But she knew she must be careful in this game. She cradled the wine against her chest, trying to hide her smile.

            It was Pietros she found arranging cups and fruit for their guest. She quirked a brow. It was usually Mira who handled these things, when such arrangements were made in the house. Still she could not say she was disappointed. She liked Mira, but the woman had a cool distance about her. Pietros, on the other hand, had seemed to warm somewhat to her these last few weeks. It was his company that she wished if she was to revel in her secret.

            “Wine,” she said, sitting the decanter on the table. He gave her a quick smile over his shoulder.

            “Is that where you went? For all the time you took, I thought the ground had swallowed you up, like Pluto had come to snatch away his Persephone.”

            She laughed. Pietros, she had discovered, knew many stories. Roman ones, Egyptian ones, Carthaginian ones( those he could rarely be persuaded to tell those). He knew the names of the old gods the adventures of heroes. Naevia liked his stories very much indeed.

            Pietros poured the wine with a careful hand, passing it off quickly to one of the nude girls.

            “You don’t tend our guest,” he asked, watching the woman retreat.

            “No, Domina says it’s not proper, as I remain untouched…for now,” she giggled.

            That caught Pietros’ attention, but not in the way she had hoped. He turned on her, concern in his eyes, and she could see him taking in all her details. Domina would not have noticed the slight rumpling of her skirt, the tussled look of her curls, her lips barley bruised by rough kissing. But Pietros did. Pietros saw every detail of what had transpired.

            He caught her chin in his hand, gently but firm, turning her face into the light.

            “Naevia,” he whispered and there was a sadness in his voice. One Naevia answered with anger. He was her friend, was he not? Should he not have been happy for her? He must have known who’s hands were upon her for her to be so elated? She jerked for his grip. He caught her wrist instead, pulling her along into one of the rooms.

            “It was Crixus, was it not,” Pietros asked plainly, the concern clear in his voice, “Naevia, how did you…”

            Naevia fished the pouch in her belt, holding it up, unable to hold back her smug smile.

            Pietros swore quietly, face in his hands as he turned from her.

            “You stole a key from a guard? Naevia, do you know what kind of danger that puts you in?” He hissed.

            “Should you not be happy for me?” she shot back, “You are my friend. They only one who knows of my affections for Crixus. And yet you begrudge me the opputunity to be with him?”

            “I begrudge you nothing Naevia,” Pietros said, taking her shoulders in his wide hands, “But I fear for you. We slaves are slaves. The desires of our hearts do not matter to those who own us. Regardless of how you feel for Crixus or how he feels for you, we will always bend to roman will. Crixus will fill Domina’s bed as often as she wishes it. And when the time comes that she deems you ready she will give you to the man of her choosing. You have seen the rage awoke in her at the very idea of Illythia having Crixus between her thighs. Do you really think such a woman would gift you to him? This is folly Naevia, dangerous folly.”

            Naevia tore from his grasp. She knew the dangers, she was not silly or stupid. But why, why was the man she longed to call friend so terribly against her happiness? She wanted Crixus with the whole of her heart. Why could Pietros not understand that? It was one thing to talk sense but to detour her so actively from her path?

            “I love him,” she snarled back, clutching the key to her chest, her life line to Crixus, “And he loves me.”

            “For now,” Pietros pressed, his eyes gone dark. “But I have spent my life in the service of gladiators and I can tell you that their affections are fleeting. Even men so seem inly good as Crixus. Even if they do not die in the arena, they’re eyes turn to ever greater virtues, and when they reach to high, when they fall, they will blame you for their failings.”

            Naevia’s lip curled, anger boiling in her chest. She had been born a slave, she had spent the whole of her life under this roof, in the service of the domina. She had had every step of her life planned for her, every minute detail. And now, just once, she wanted something for herself, for her own choosing. Any other moment she would have seen the concern in Peitros eyes, would have heard the affection in his voice and the sense in his words. But not now. Not with such unknown emotions filling her, emotions she felt the whole world was suddenly trying to rip from her grasp.

            “Just because Barca abandoned you does not mean Crixus will do the same to me. I have not had to whore myself to him to make him love me!”

            It was a surprised sort of pain that came to Pietros’s face then, like a knife slipped between the ribs, delivered by beloved hand. It was only then that Naevia realized what she had said. She shock suddenly, coming back to herself, throwing a hand over her treacherous mouth. Somewhere in the distance she could hear laughter, as if the universe was mocking her.

            “Oh god’s…Pietros I-I didn’t mean that. I didn’t…”

            But Peitros threw up a silencing hand, turning from her as if to leave.

            Then they heard the screaming.

~*~

            Pietros saw her first, the women with the ruin faced. The smell of blood was thick it choked him. The sound of small feet behind him reminded him that he was not in the ludus, their were innocent eyes hear, and despite such recent wounds he would not have Naevia see such things. He had seen brains cast from men’s skulls before and it was a site that had never left him.

            He reached for Naevia, pulling her against his chest, curling around her. She was shaking. How much had she seen?

            “Don’t look,” he whispered to her, “Don’t look.”

            Naevia clung to him.

            “It’s just like Gaia,” She whimpered, “Gaia died like that too, with her head smashed on the stone. She was kind to me.”

            Pietros did not know the name or the story of the person it went with but in that moment Pietros realized he could not save Naevia from such horrors, because she had already seen them. Perhaps their were some pains in this world they were all destined to feel, some horrors they were all meant to witness. Perhaps that was what it meant to be a slave in Rome.

            Pietros spent all night thinking about the answer, as he scrubbed the roman woman’s blood from the floor.

            But another question prompted itself as the sun began to rise, and men could be heard stewing in the ludus below. These the things that monsters did, that beasts did, smashing skulls against stone until the blood and brain flowed like water. And yet the women they had thrown over the cliff, her face had been far more wrecked, her body more broken, than any he had ever seen in the ludus. There, the killing was controlled by Doctore’s hand. There were fights, there were accidents, but in the ludus he had never seen a body so destroyed.

            And yet the hands that had done this deed were Roman hands, small and fine and uncalloused. Those hands, Illythia’s hands, had never known the weight of a sword or the sting of a whip. She had never been taught to fight. To kill. It had come to her, almost as instinct.

            Which begged the question, who were the true animals? Where they below, in the ludus? Or up here, in the house, wearing human clothes?

            Naevia’s words, the fire in her eyes as she had said them, replayed in his head and he had to swallow down the ache they left in the pit of his stomach.

            Perhaps they were all animals when they needed to be.

~*~


	12. Chapter 12

**_ Chapter 12 _ **

~*~

            Crixus had once called this a world of piss and shit. He could not have been more right.

            Barca’s days, it seemed, stretched endlessly. He was used only in the pits now. He had never come here as a fighter. Batiatus the elder hated this place. He would come to procure talent, but he did not fight men here. This was not a place befitting a gladiator.

            He missed the old man, sometimes, but at the same time he was glad his old Dominus was dead, seeing what spilled forth from the house now. Gladiators used for as studs for rich women. Gladiators for the enjoyment of hate filled little boys.

            He had helped them carry Varro’s body.

            He had not seen how the man died. But he had seen the champion’s broken knuckles and the dead look that haunted his face these days. It was a look he knew. And in the night, he hoped the fever would take the man and end his suffering. Death was kinder than a roman hand.

            He found he wished for his own death, often as not. He knew the pits would kill. Not the men who fought in them but the place itself. Because he was not like Spartacus, who had been tossed here from a different life altogether. He had fallen here and there was no way to climb out of such a place.

            But he knew, if he was to die, there was something he must do first.

            He had no coin left to his name, all had been taken by dominus or never retrieved by Ashur in the first place. But he one thing, the gold ear piece. It was but a trinket to any man but him. Still the gold used in the making would bring some small bit of coin. It was easy to bribe the guard with it.

            He waited, watching. The boy was always sent down for wine before the evening meal.

            Barca’s heart stilled as he watched from the shadows as the familiar figure descended the stairs. He was thinner now than he had been, but not under nourished. He had let his hair grow, begun twisting it into short locks that Barca longed to touch. He was clean shaven, perfumed and oiled as was the nature of house slaves. The shadows danced on his dark skin and Barca felt a fierce longing he thought he had defeated. A longing for the boy he had fallen in love with, the boy who’s life he had cast to ruin. 

            “Pietros,” he whispered, pressing to the bars.

            The youth started, whirling to face him, panicked. But his dark eyes grew cold when they landed on Barca.

            “You should not be here,” he hissed, his voice like ice on Barca’s skin.

            “I know,” he relented, “But I needed to speak with you.”

            Pietros gave a snort, lips twisted in a cruel smile. It was like a knife in Barca’s heart. Never had he seen that gentle face ruined with such expression.

            “And what words can you give that I would want to hear from your lips? Your have already destroyed me once. Do you seek to drag me further into your shit, because I fear there is no deeper I can go.”

            The knife twisted.

            “No,” he said, his voice raw, “There are no words I can offer you to make amends for what I have done. But I say them despite, because they need saying. I am sorry for all the lies I told you, believing I would keep you safe. I am sorry that I was selfish, that I lied to you so that you would not see the monster that I am. I am sorry that I did not trust you as I should have. I am sorry for all the ways you have had to pay for my shortcomings. I am sorry I left I could not protect you as I promised you I would. I am sorry that I destroyed us. I am sorry for everything that I have done to you.”

            Pietros stared at him, long and hard, fists clenched until his arms shook. He stepped towards the bars and Barca was frozen. Pietros pressed himself to the barrier between them, so close Barca could feel his breath. There were little things he could see now, things he had not noticed before. The hollowness of Pietros’s cheeks, the darkness beneath his eyes. There was a scar on his lower lip that had not been there before, another on the curve of his cheekbone.

            “You are sorry,” The boy hissed, “You are sorry? What are you sorry for Barca? For the bodies I have had to help hide? Or for the time I spend on my knees scrubbing the blood from marble floors? Are you sorry for the nights I do not sleep, for the fear that dreams will bring memories of what has been stolen from me by once beloved hands? Are you sorry for the rape, be it by roman shits or a man you call brother?”

            “Pietros I..”

            “No,” the boy snarled between his teeth, nearly nose to nose with Barca now, “If I could not hold your love, then do not give me your pity. I have no use for it.”

            He thrust away from the bar’s, turned and made as if to run, but in a moment of desperation, Barca reached for him, catching a slender wrist in his hand.

            “Please,” he begged, “I have no right to ask your forgiveness. But please tell me what I must do.”

            Pietros did not pull against the hold but he refused to look at the gladiator.

            “Remove your touch from me. Remove every trace of it. Remove the mark of yourself from my heart, from my skin. Cease to exist, make it as if you were never then and then maybe I will find peace, you arrogant fuck.”

            Barca released the boy’s skin as if he had been burned. Pietros snatched the jar of wine, then he was up the stairs and gone.

            Barca stood frozen for a moment. Had this not been the goal, to remove the boy from him as completely as possible? To make it so he would not try to come back? To make him hate Barca? In this, it seemed, he had succeeded. That knowledge was the final twist of the blade. Barca would do what he could for Pietros. He would remove all trace of himself from this house.

~*~

            It was all Pietros could do to deliver the wine before his hands shook apart. He passed it to Naevia with a cordial smile, refusing let his body betray him yet. There had been a coolness between them these last few weeks. Words, even apologized for, could not be unsaid. He knew she thought his disapproval to be jealousy and that hurt him more than he wanted to admit. He did not feel he could trust her with this now.

            He scrambled out from her gaze as quickly as possible. He cursed when he felt his body quaking, when he felt the first catching of his breath. Fury and frustration tumbled down on top of hate, and fear and longing, until he was crushed under the weight of them. His back hit the wall and he was sliding to the floor, tear hot on his cheek even as he tried to choke them down. He clutched his wrist where Barca had touched his, searing his flesh as if he’d been burned. He’d wanted, god’s how he’d wanted, to lean out and touch the man. He longed for it, down to his bones and he hated it. And more over he hated himself all the more for wanting it. He cursed his own weakness and his own treacherous heart. How could you love a man you hated? How could one body bring down such pain upon itself?

            Soft footsteps pulled him from his thoughts and he felt the heat of shame rise in his cheeks. But when he looked up, he saw only Mira, adjusting her dress. She looked at him, shame in her own eyes, while her pink tongue darted out to taste cut on her lip.

            Her eyes softened at the sight of him. She did ask questions of him, she did not speak. She only came to him, and took the hand he offered between her own. Silent solidarity and a reminder that he was not alone. 


	13. Chapter 13

**_ Chapter 13 _ **

~*~

            Aurelia. That was the girl’s name. Though Pietros supposed she was more a woman than a girl. She had a child after all.

            Pietros found her to be good company, though many of the other slaves seemed to have little tolerance for her shaking hands of mousy nature. But Pietros was patient with her. She gave him something to focus on. Another project, in a way. And he felt drawn to her, for the memory of Varro. The gladiator had always been kind to him, even when he was not counted among their number. He had once scolded Gnaeus for the way he pawed at the boy, and though it had earned Pietros a beating later, he still felt a gratitude towards the man, for treating him like a human being.

            He saw the shaking in her hands, the way she disappeared and then returned with tear stained cheeks. He loss was not an easy one. Her husband gone, her child sent away, and now he own body forfeit to slavery. Pietros felt for her. He talked to her, asked her about Varro and Janus. She would talk about them with a sad smile on her face. People grieved in different ways he supposed. He could not talk about his own pain, but once more he felt it easy, being able to listen to someone talk about theirs, to know that he was helping someone, doing something of value.

            But her hatred of Spartacus was an altogether different thing. There was a venom in her when she spoke of him, when she looked upon him, the likes of which Pietros had never seen. Spartacus had ever been a decent man to him, yet he had robbed her over her husband, because he had not other choice. Still, to her eyes it was unforgivable.

            Pietros often wondered about such things. About how hate could curdle in a soul as sweet as Aurelia’s and make it bitter. He was not silly enough not to see what it had done to him. But after a time he would have to stop, for those thoughts always led back to Barca.

            Aurelia had also brought welcome distraction from his concerns with Naevia as well. Crixus visited Domina often enough, but there was a spring to his step that had not been there before. It was not one born, Pietros was sure, of his renewed victory, but of something else. Something he was sure correlated with Naevia’s increasingly frequent disappearances. But he did not confront her, she knew his feelings on the matter and she had been plain about hers.

            But words pulled from Ashur’s lips had changed everything.

             

~*~

            It was amazing, Naevia thought to herself, how quickly everything could be ripped from you. Hours ago she had been wrapped in her lovers arms, content, happy. It felt as if there was nothing more perfect in the world. She had dressed slowly, letting Crixus aid, dropping kisses on her bare skin as he pleased. She could still smell him on her skin when she made her way up the stairs.

            Pietros greeted her there and she felt a small pang of sadness. She longed to speak with someone about how much she loved her gladiator. But Pietros disapproved of their relations, jaded as he was. They did not talk about Crixus, so that their friendship would remain intact. There was ever a sting of guilt from the words she had spat in Pietros’s face that night, words only half meant, but still spoken. But there was something in his eyes now, almost a panic, that prompted her to slip away with him.

            “Have you been with Crixus?” he asked, his whisper urgent and quite.

            She frowned.

            “Yes. I know how you feel about it but, “ she said calmly but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. He was nearly frantic.

            “No no, it’s not that. Naevia, you must get to the baths. You must remove all trace of him before,”

            “Naevia?” Domina’s call rang through the hall, sharp and commanding.

            Pietros cursed.

            “Before what,” she asked, suddenly frightened.

            Pietros cupped her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

            “The secret is to do as he tells you. Just close your eyes, breath, and obey,” he whispered and she could hear the pain in his voice, “I’m so sorry Naevia.”

            “NAEVIA!” Domina called again, and with a last glance at Pietros, she scurried away.

             Now, gathering her clothes and the remainder of her dignity, she understood. Pietros must have overheard the bargain struck, that she was to be given to Ashur. He had tried to warn her, but warning had come too late. Despite Domina’s obvious displeasure, she was Ashur’s now.

            Goose pimples rose on her skin and she tried to quell her shivering when his lips touched her skin.

            “Until next time, dear one,” he said to her, that wicked smile curled on his ugly lips. She shuffled from the room, towards the baths. Despite her recent tryst with Crixus, she was pained. Ashur had been rough with her, held her until she bruised. Memories of Diona flashed through her mind, of Mira after she serviced the guards, or Pietros when he returned from Gnaeus. She had never realized what pain had truly been caused them, not until she felt it herself. And now she knew this was not a fate she would wish on anyone. It was the not pain, that she could tolerate. It was the shame, it was the regret. She knew that fighting him would only have brought her harm, that screaming or crying would have done her no good. But still she felt she should have done something, something besides lie there and let him do as he would.

             A sob escaped her before she could catch it behind her teeth.

            “Naevia,” came a soft voice.

            Pietros stood, Aurelia at his side. She could see in their faces that they knew. They knew what had been done to her, because it had been done to them. The tears came unbidden then and Pietros was there, not touching her, but waiting for her to come to him. She did, throwing herself against his chest with a wretched sob. He stroked her hair and hushed her softly.

            “I know,” he said quietly, “I know. And I am so very sorry.”

            It was Aurelia who took her too the baths, who helped wipe away the traces of the man. They sat in silence, and Naevia’s mind wandered. She thought she understood now, what had prompted Pietros to want to take his own life. To feel as if you had everything, to feel as if fortune had finally turned in your favor, and then to suddenly have it all ripped away from you. She could see how that would destroy a soul. She understood now.

~*~


	14. Chapter 14

**_ Chapter 14 _ **

            Barca stood for the first time in many months in the halls of Batiatus house. Memory came unbidden to him, of kneeling in the pool, ready for the knife that would cut his throat. It had changed. The whole of the house, with the coin that filled Batiatus purse. But Barca knew no amount of paint or plaster could hide the blood that on these walls.

            His eyes flickered to the entry way, to the tall, dark youth holding a decanter. Pietros back was to him. Thanks the gods for small favors. Barca knew he could not stand to look the boy in the eye. He forced himself to find a place on the wall, to keep his hands clasped behind his back, to not think on things that had been or the vice that tightened around his chest, Pietros’s words echoing in his head. 2

            The Legitas had examined them all with a careful eye and a thoroughly bored expression. They all knew there was only one he had interest in.

            To watch the man fight against so many soldiers, that brought back memories too. Barca knew first had how unfair a fight that was. And Spartacus succeeded. Barca could not help the smile that came to his lips. His days in the pits had become senseless, one long, endless journey through hell. He was a beast there, laying in wait for something bigger and stronger and fiercer to come along and spill his blood. He’d forgotten what true men were capable of. Spartacus had become a legend in his own right. But watching the man take a knee before the roman shit made his stomach churn. It was a duty commanded of all of them, but it did not make it any easier to watch. All feel to knee beneath the weight of Rome.

            Barca’s eyes fell to Crixus instead, to see what the man thought of the fight. It had always been their game, to judge the skills of others in silent gazes. But Crixus’ eyes rested elsewhere now, on the form of Naevia. Barca sighed. The fool was in love. Still, the little girl Barca had once known had grown into a woman of form. He did not have a taste for women but he had enough sense to appreciate them. He could only hope the fates were kinds enough to allow Crixus a place in Naevia’s arms.

            He did not even notice Ashur’s presence there, until the fuck pressed close to her back. He touched her with such open intimacy. There were tears in the girl’s eyes, a shiver of disgust that rattled her spine.

            And suddenly, all hell broke loose.

            Barca reached for the man, wrapping arms tight around the man’s chest and hauling him back. Spartacus and Doctore grappled for his arms. Crixus screamed incomprehensibly and Barca cursed himself. How could he not have seen, how could he not have known how deep the man’s affections went? He had not warned Crixus of the dangers of love, ones he knew to well. Barca’s eyes flickered to Pietros, as the youth helped her to her feet.

            “Slaves running wild!” The Legatas snarled over Crixus’ wailing, “This is what you would have me give name toward?”

            Batiatus was livid, staring between Ashur and Crixus and Barca knew that it was the Syrian snake’s plan all along. He had used Crixus’ heart against him, just as he had Barca’s. The Carthaginian bared his teeth in a growl. He would have Ashur’s fucking throat before the end, if he had to slaughter every guard in the place first.

            It took all their strength to drag Crixus back to the ludus. The man was broken.

            Oenomaus stood in shocked silence, watching the man they had once called champion, weeping on his knees.

            “What has happened Barca,” the Doctore asked, “What has happened to this house, which I have so long served?”

            Barca rested a hand on Oenomaus shoulder.

            “It no longer exists, friend. The house we were trained in is gone. What remains above us is but an illusion. It stands on the foundations but it is nothing but a pit of vipers and asps. Their taint seeps into everything they cling to. Ourselves included.”

 ~*~

            Screams of madness echoed through the house. Domina had lost her mind. All had been sent away. All but Mira….and Naevia. Domina would kill her for such betrayal. Pietros bit the inside of his lip, nails digging into his palms. Domina was small in comparison to him, he could easily restrain her. But then what? What good would it do? The guards would kill him and Naevia both. Or worse.

            Mora clapped her hands sharply at him, waking him from his revere. He was not sure hoe long he had stood there, but his legs ached from not moving. He face was stony, her lips pursed. It was the looking she always got when ordered to do something unpleasant.

            “There is a mess to be cleaned up,” she said sharply, “see to it.”

            Pietros found the bed chamber in ruins. Pottery smashed, linens torn, blood on the floor. Long tendrils of dark hair. Mira looked up at him, her hands full broken glaze. She looked shaken to the core.

            “Pietros!”

            He turned towards the sound of Naevia’s voice as she flung herself at him.

            Her face was bruised and bloody, her once beautiful hair gone. She clutched at him, frantic and Pietros held her back. One last bit of comfort he could offer.

            The guards were reaching for her as she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, her lips pressed to his ear.

            “Barca did not betray you,” she whispered quickly, “Ashur betrayed him, first with lies that he had failed to kill the boy as commanded, and then again saying the two of you had planned escape if freedom could not be procured. Dominus wanted you put to cart for the mines. Barca begged him not to. He said he would send you from his side, that his winnings would go to your up keep instead of to his freedom. He was trying to protect you. He loves you. Love has betrayed us all.”

            Pietros grappled for, but a powerful arm grabbed him as well. She caught his hand as he reached for her.

            “Tell Crixus,” she pleaded, “Tell him I love him. Tell him I didn’t not want this. Please Pietros!”

            “I will,” he promised, his voice faltering.

            Rough hands snatched her from him then, dragging her from the house.

~*~


	15. Chapter 15

**_ Chapter 15 _ **

~*~

            Days passed beneath the newly forged iron fist of Batiatus. Crixus’ punishment had sent a clear message. The old way was dead. The reign of Legatas Glaber had begun.

            The guards were as beasts now, doling out punishment for even the smallest offenses. Barca kept his head down and his mouth shut but he found their gaze on him often enough. He would be returned to the arena soon. His potential, it was decided, was wasted in the pits. He was reminded that he should by all rights be killed for his treachery, but that Batiatus was ever a kind master. Barca did not speak as the lies were feed to him again and again. Instead, his mind stirred with other thoughts.

            Spartacus and the German brother’s spoke of freedom. He had been one of the first they had come to. But the glimmer of hope they spoke of, it was not one Barca could entertain. He knew what would happen to the house slaves, if any man in the ludus attempted such folly. But in the same vain, he feared for Crixus. The man saw winning his freedom as a viable option, one Barca knew the lies behind. So he fought when he was told, ate when he was told, and waited the sweet sleep of death. As did they all.

~*~

            Pietros took the steps slow and quiet. Some part of him had waited to be called here. Some part of him hoped to sneak a glance at Barca. He did not forgive them man, he wasn’t sure he ever could, for the lies told, that set this whole thing in motion. But to know that there had been love at the root of it all, that changed things. To know that Barca had meant to protect him, as he had always promised. That meant something. He wasn’t sure what, but he wanted nothing more than to tell the man that. To tell him at least, that he understood now.

             But the guards were harsher these days. They held him tight by the arm, steering him through the ludus, along an unfamiliar path. He was not going to Gnaeus.

            The pushed him roughly into the unfamiliar cell. It was open on all sides. A place occupied by new recruits. Pietros found himself in the company to the larger German, Agron, he thought.

            He sighed. Hopefully this man was lighter handed than Gnaeus or the few guards who had taken a liking to Pietros flesh.

             The man approached him with an air of curiosity, fingers reaching out to touch his jaw, almost fascinated. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

            “You like dark skin,” Pietros asked, watching the man.   
            Agron shrugged.

            “I had never seen it, before we came here. But I find I am fond of it,” he caught Pietros arm, pulling him towards what few shadows the cell afforded, pressing the younger man back against the wall. Pietros took a deep breath, let it out. He knew how to play this game well by now. Anticipate. React. It did not require feeling or thought. He let his arms wrap around the man’s shoulders, craned his neck to give the German more room. Rough fingers tangled in his hair as the man pressed a kiss to his throat, his jaw.

            “I bring a message from Spartacus,” the man whispered, breath hot against Pietros’s ear.

            The Egyptian pulled away looking at the man quizzically.

            “Spartacus?”

            “Shh,” the German hushed sharply, resuming his earlier ministrations, “he says you were close to the one called Barca, yes?”

            Pietros breath caught.

            “Once,” he relented, “When I was still a slave in the ludus.”

            “Spartacus asks for your help now,” the German spoke against Pietros skin. Over Agron’s shoulder, Pietros could see the guard watching them, a glint of desire in his eye.

            “Help in what,” Peitros asked, leaning in to kiss the man’s shoulder, to keep the movements of his own lips hidden as well.

            “Spartacus makes plans to free us all, a task he can not undertake with out his brothers at his side. Crixus refuses to join us, so so do his Gauls. Barca unites himself with no one, but he is still great friend Crixus. If you can sway the beast to our cause, he can in turn sway Crixus.”

            Pietros turned the idea over in his head as the German pressed a hand to the small of his back. This was utter madness. Escape? But then again, who better to take down a house full of roman guards then trained fighting men? But how would they get into the house? And if they did, if they succeeded, where did they plan to go?

            Still there was some thing in the thought that hooked Pietros, that pulled him in. he had spent his whole life living by the commands of other men, being punished for the mistakes of other men. Just once, he wanted something of his own choosing.

            He trailed his fingers down Agron’s spine, catching the man’s chin, bringing the green/blue eyes to meet his own.

            “I will do what I can,” he pressed a kiss to the man’s mouth, “I can not promise his cooperation, but should you get into the house, you will have mine.”

            “Thank you,” the German breathed, his eyes now actively roaming across the Egyptian’s skin.

            Peitros’s gave flickered to the guard, who was still watching them heatedly.

            “Go on then,” he whispered in the German’s ear, letting himself be lost in a touch of a man who did not mean him harm. He had nearly forgotten what that felt like.

            It was some days before opportunity presented itself, to speak with Barca. There was one guard in particular who like Pietros’s company. He was a big man, hateful and rough, but he liked to drink despite a light head. Pietros had managed to spirit away an amphora of wine when the man came for him, and he plied the fat fuck with wine and sex, waiting for his head to drop to the table, before slipping out in halls of the ludus. Thank the gods the one idiot guard left was the one who had taken a shine to him.

            His feet found Barca’s cell again without even thinking, the memory of the path still etched in muscle and bone. It seemed smaller now, absent the bird’s cages, silent without their soft cooing. Barca slept as he always did, on his back, one hand resting on his chest, the other flung out from his body. It made the perfect spot for a body to rest and Pietros felt the sudden harsh urge of longing again. He wanted to lay there, as he used, head rested on Barca’s shoulder, listening to the soft even breath.

            He let out a soft, shaky sigh. Barca’s eyes snapped open and he turned, snarling.

            Pietros made to move back as everything threw itself into sharp relief again. He would never rest against this man as he once had. Despite what intentions Barca had in the beginning, too much had past between them now. Perhaps one day, if they gained freedom, he would find the strength to let go, to forgive. But he was an imperfect man, one hurt a thousand times over by the lies of others. He wasn’t sure he had the strength for forgiveness just yet.

            Barca’s gaze cleared and he blinked at Pietros, confused.

            “What are you doing here,” he whispered, coming close to the bars, “If you’re caught…”

            “Shh,” Pietros hushed, hand slipping through the bars, fingers brushing the curve of the man’s jaw before he could stop himself, “Still concern, and let words be said quickly. I know why you have what you have done. Naevia told me of Ashur’s betrayal. One day I hope we will sit together and you will tell me the whole of the story, that you give truth to every lie. And I pray we will do it as free men.”

            Barca’s hand caught Pietros’s fingers, holding them against his cheek, leaning into the touch as if he would die with out it.

            “You asked me once what you could do for me, and I know now what that must. You may be content to die a slave but I will not. So fight. If you will not do it for yourself, do it for me. Please.”

            “Pietros,” he whispered and the longing in his voice was almost palpable.

            “I must go,” the Egyptian said, and in that moment, pulling his hand from the man’s cheek was the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

~*~

            Hell found it’s way into the house of Batiatus the following night.

~*~

            Barca could hear the screams from the house above and it ran through his blood, like a hunting cry. He smiled. He would go there soon, he would spill more Roman blood. But there was one life he knew he must take first. He wanted Ashur, true, but he would not fight Oenomaus’ claim on the man. He would settle for Gnaeus instead. He felt no loyalty to the man he had once called brother. The man had spat on him when he was fallen, had harmed Pietros because he could. He had only joined their rebellion when victory became clear. He did not deserve his title and Barca would see him stripped of it.

            “ Gnaeus!” he called through the ludus halls, “Come out you fucking coward!”

            The blow came from behind, and Barca turned on the man, snarling.

            “All this, for your pretty cunt? We were as brothers!”

            “You are no brother of mine,” Barca snarled, barreling his body into the other, throwing them, tumbling into the yard.

            The grappled and fought like animals, weapons lost in the shadows. Hands, feet, elbows, teeth, nails, anything that could find purchase in flesh. Gnaeus forced knee into still healing wound on Barca’s side. A roar tore it’s way out of the Carthaginians throat and he slammed his head against Gnaeus’s, knocking the man back. Barca managed to gain his feet, fingers wrapping around that treacherous throat.

 

 “STOP!”

Pietros stood in the doorway of the ludus, looking at once so out of place and so familiar that it staggered Barca’s mind. The boy held a blade in his hand, a gladius, he realized. The youth was pained in blood from neck to knee, but from what Barca could see, the Egyptian bore only some superficial cuts and split lip.  All those years fetching and carrying weapons for other men had not been wasted, it seemed.

“You would kill the man marked your brother,” the boy asked, walking across the yard. It was empty now, except for them and the German, and the pup’s grief was too deep and heavy for him to notice them. Still, screams and sounds of fighting could be heard from the house. But all Barca heard was the sound of his boy’s voice, speaking to him without hate or venom, truly speaking to him, for the first time in months.

“I would kill the man who laid hateful hands on you,” Barca admitted, his gaze falling back to Gnaeus and he squeezed all the harder.

Pietros was an arms length from him now, a strangely peaceful look on his face.

“You would kill man who you once called friend, who you have spilled blood beside, who bears the mark, all because he hurt me?”

“I would kill any man who hurts you. A single word, and I would take my own life, for all the pain that I have caused you.”

“There is only one life I would take,” the boy said, and he turned his own gaze to the fallen gladiator, “because he owes me far more than that.”

Barca did not expect the raw, raging sound that escaped Pietros as he lunged, sticking Gnaeus in the jaw with his fist, so hard it broke Barca’s grip. Then Gnaeus was floundering, teetering on the cliff’s edge with no balance and nothing to grab hold of. Pietros laughed at the site, but it was not a sound Barca had heard before, cold and cruel. But force of it, and Pietros foot to the man’s chest, carried Gnaeus, screaming, over the cliffs edge. The body hit the bottoms with a satisfying crack.

They stood that way for a long time, Pietros’ eyes captured by the red smear at the bottom of the cliff. There was a ghost of a smile on the younger man’s lips, but not the sort that Barca had ever seen before. It was bitter and triumphant, the smile of a man who had made his first kill…and enjoyed it. Barca knew it should have broken his heart all the more, to see a creature once so gentle natured to so enjoy death. But he had seen the worst of men these past few months, and he knew Pietros had seen worse still. The sweet youth, who worried over small and silly things, who laughed and danced, and loved openly was gone now, though Barca hoped something of him remained in the figure now before him.

“What shall we do now,” Barca asked and the weight of the question hung heavy between them. Where would they stand if they survived the night? Who had they become? Could Barca ever find a place at Pietros side again, a place in his arms. He did not know. He wasn’t sure Pietros did either.

 The youth reached down, picking up the hilt of a fallen Roman sword. He passed it to Barca and their fingers brushed.

“Now,” he said, “We kill them all.”

~*~


End file.
